Warden
by nugicorn
Summary: AU starting point. Struck down at Ostagar, Carver Hawke finds himself inducted into the Grey Wardens, responsible for stopping the Blight ravaging Ferelden.
1. Battle of Ostagar

_AN: Okay, so for starters, this story is *completed* I should be updating weekly, probably on Fridays. But all the story is written out; no chance of abandonment. Secondly, Niamh is pronounced "ni-ev." It's Irish. I'm sorry._

Chapter One

Battle of Ostagar

Carver sat just outside the orange and gold command tent, listening to the heated argument within as he pretended to cook his food. He'd mainly been catching a word or two at a time, and what little he heard dismayed him greatly; he had an urge to yell at the whole camp to please shut their faces so he could hear the rest. Between the noise of sparring, weapon repair, and too many soldiers without anything to do, the cacophony nearly drowned out anything else.

"You cannot ask it of me, Cailan. I refuse!" That raised voice was Teyrn Loghain, commander of all the forces that weren't Wardens. But what—

"And I tell you it must be, Loghain. The battle is unwinnable. You say so yourself. I've already arranged for my things to fall into Warden hands. Other than that …." The king trailed off.

Unwinnable? How could that be right? And if that were so, why was Loghain not spiriting the king away, to keep him safe? Carver's stomach twisted. Something had gone terribly wrong here.

Loghain's voice dropped so that Carver had to strain to hear it. "But with you at the forefront? How does that help anyone? You cannot—"

"Carver!"

 _Oh, not now, Miranda._

"Carver," she called again, striding through the camp. Soldiers parted to let her by as she used her inimitable Miranda Hawke swagger, the light glinting off her twin daggers as her hips rolled.

He wondered briefly if he could hide on the other side of the command tent, and still hear the rest of the argument. _Too late, she's spotted me._ Seeing him, Miranda made straight for him, blue eyes dark and stormy.

"Carver, I must speak with you now."

Carver glowered. Whatever condescending advice his older sister had come to impart, he didn't need it. "Why don't we wait? One of us might not survive the coming battle, and then we won't have to have this conversation at all."

She merely waited, one hip cocked to the side, her gaze solid and unflinching.

"All right," he griped, getting up before her glare could make him squirm. He left the fire and his cold food; he wasn't hungry anyway. Perhaps some dog would wander by and steal it; they were supposed to be penned, but it seemed as though hundreds of the things roamed free, not just through the Warden camp, but through the army camp, as well.

Apparently, his ruminations slowed him too much for Miranda's purpose, as she snagged his arm to move him along faster.

He swallowed his anger at still being dragged away by the arm like a wayward child and he pulled away, but stomped after her as she led him some distance from the tents. She kept moving toward the edge of camp, dark trees beyond them looming like sinister sentinels. Carver tried to remember to keep his temper with her. It did him no credit, he knew; and more than one person had suggested that he went looking for things to be angry about, rather than stumbling upon real aggravations. He'd show them. He'd be patient and bear things solidly, and there would _still_ be plenty of reasons to be angry.

"We're far enough," Carver snapped. She had led them about as far as one could go while still being in the camp, stopping by the pens of those damn dogs. They yapped, throwing themselves against the wooden barriers in some kind of exultant fury. Why in Andraste's name would anyone willingly keep these things?

"Look around, Carver. What do you see?" Miranda watched him, seemingly willing him to understand something.

He hated these games she played, always pretending at teaching him something, rather than speaking her mind. "It's an army camp. Right next to us—" He paused grinding his teeth. "Right next to us is the mabari pen, which apparently, no self-respecting noble or warrior can do without." As if summoned, another of the damn beasts wandered by outside the pen, sending the ones inside into a desperate frenzy.

Miranda crossed her arms, still watching him. "Well? What else?" she asked, her tone clipped and terse.

Sighing, Carver actually looked around this time, making some token effort. He saw soldiers preparing for the coming battle. Some tended armor and weapons, ensuring that their gear would be ready. Others sparred, with magic or weapons or both. Others still made food, ate, or milled about aimlessly. Some of those last kept glancing at the command tent where Cailan conferred with Teyrn Loghain, a conversation on which Carver had so recently been eavesdropping. They'd look away, shift, turn, and end up facing that same command tent again.

More unnerving, a large contingent of the soldiers, both regular army and Wardens, were praying. Alone or in groups or led by a Chantry sister. A good deal of praying. A lot more, in fact, than there should be before an average battle.

"They're scared," he said finally, unable to deny it.

His sister nodded, favoring him with a small smile. "Do you know why? Have you been listening to the gossip?"

"Miranda, please! You know I don't listen to idle gossip." Carver rolled his eyes, hoping she wouldn't ask about listening at tent flaps. Not looking at her, he heard her disappointed sigh—for maybe the thousandth time in his life—and his muscles tensed. He found himself wanting to hit her. This conversation had already worn his patience thin enough to fray.

 _Calm yourself, Carver. Goading Miranda into thrashing you in front of the entire army helps nothing._

Miranda's smile had faded, fleeting approval gone already. "You ought to," she told him. "If you did, you'd know what the scouts' reports said. Like everyone else does." She glanced to the nervous, unsettled mess of men and women, and Carver followed her gaze, a heavy pit settling into his stomach.

"What did they say?" he asked, forcing the words through numb lips. He knew the result, even if he didn't know the exact reports. The result was Cailan in his tent, telling Loghain they couldn't win. Telling him that, and then asking … something the Teryn was unwilling to do.

"Everything, as usual." Miranda shrugged. "But picking through the wild tales and obviously made-up stories for the kernels of truth inside …. The darkspawn aboveground outnumber us by at least ten to one. The archdemon—"

"Wait, above ground? What do you—"

Miranda continued, not pausing for his interruption. "The archdemon isn't with them. Talk is, he's still underground. The tower—" She pointed without looking, her eyes focused hard on him "—has not yet been secured, and word is there's darkspawn in tunnels underneath. _If_ he even shows, I've gathered it's vital we have a Grey Warden to kill it, but if we're surrounded by darkspawn and it doesn't show, we won't have a Warden left. We don't have thousands. We don't even have hundreds." Her eyes blazed, and she trembled lightly. "What does all this add up to, to you?"

Carver's shoulders dropped. "You're saying we can't win." The words dropped from him hollowly, landing in the mud in front of them. Ten to one above, and more coming in from the tower inside their own camp. Every Warden in Ferelden plus the king. And if the darkspawn were close enough, there wasn't even time to retreat.

"There you go, little brother." She threw an arm over shoulder, pulling him close; the pretense at affection was worse than the patronizing tone. "Now, come on. We can't do any good dying here. We're going to go to Mother and Bethany and we're going to get our own to safety. Mother still has people in Kirkwall." She took two steps, and Carver followed in automatic obedience a moment before he balked, unwilling to go further.

"No." He threw her arm off him roughly; she half-stumbled and the look of disbelief on her face would sustain him for years, he knew … if he lived that long.

"What do you mean, no? You have a responsibility to your family—"

" _No!"_ She had grabbed him again, fingers digging into his arm, and he wrenched away from her. "I also have a responsibility to my king, as you seem to have forgotten. If you want to run back home, I won't stop you, but I'm staying to do my duty."

"Carver …." For once, Miranda seemed to have no idea what to say. She looked away, speaking to him, but facing out into the Korcari Wilds, where the darkspawn would soon emerge and overwhelm them all.

"Carver, anyone who stays …." She trailed off, as if realizing it did no good; his mind was made up.

"Give my love to Bethany and Mother," Carver said, his tone softening a little. "I'll … I'll be after you soon."

"I … I will, Carver. We'll likely leave Lothering right away."

Carver nodded, and Miranda turned to go. She stopped, however, and turned back to fling herself into him. Her arms clutched tight around his neck, and Carver realized—for the first time, somehow—that she was shorter than he; she'd always seemed so much bigger.

Reluctantly, he returned the embrace, unsure of quite how to do it.

"Vivat Hawke, little brother." Miranda pulled back, and Carver noticed, with a sickening shock, that her eyes looked wet. He'd never seen her cry, and he didn't think he could handle it now; he studied the ground in front of him.

"Vivat Hawke. I'll be with you again soon, sister." He forced the words out past a lump in his throat; surprised and dismayed to find himself nearly in tears, as well. Then she turned her back walked away, threading through the soldiers who should be bustling, but instead shuffled about as if in a foggy dream.

A moment later, she was gone, a deserter even if she hadn't quite left the camp yet, and Carver realized he was alone, another first in his life. No more older sister telling him what he should do, no Bethany prompting him him to curb his "surliness," as she put it. No mother managing to look mildly disappointed, yet unsurprised, at every word or deed of his.

Just Carver Hawke, and he had just made the first independent decision of his life. He was going to remain with the army, do his duty, and almost certainly die for it.

Carver's chest tightened. He gasped for breath, but it wouldn't come. He had a sudden urge to fling away his greatsword, strip off his clothes, and lie down so he could breathe. Their numbers, which had sounded so inadequate when Miranda explained it, now felt overwhelming. The press of so much flesh, the smells and sounds of so many people, closed in on him. If he didn't get out, away for a moment, he wouldn't survive for the darkspawn to kill him.

Pushing toward the gate that led into the Korcari Wilds, Carver felt as though he were swimming upstream. With broken fins, and genlocks and hurlocks with poison weapons trying to stop him, rather than simple bears.

"Oy, ser?"

Carver kept moving, hardly hearing. He had to get to the gate, the gate, the gate. It was just on the other side of the pen, but the pen seemed to stretch out endlessly, leagues and leagues of dogs throwing themselves at the wooden fence. The hounds' baying echoed hollowly, bouncing back at him from all directions. His heart thumped loud and strong, sending pulses of blackness across his vision. In a moment, he'd pass out, and the way his lungs clenched now, he'd die unnoticed and unremarked, worthless and aimless and ending up a corpse that would only waste the time of some real warrior who'd have to move him.

" _Ser!"_ Someone plucked at his sleeve, barely holding him, but Carver found himself strengthless, unable to pull away.

"Are you going into the wilds, ser? Only I have a sick hound here, and the Wardens were too busy."

"What?" The words reached him, but they were fuzzy, muted by the roaring of the blood in his ears. He couldn't make hide nor hair of it.

"The dog, ser! Darkspawn tainted, she is, but I could help her. Only I need a flower from the wilds. White flower, with a red eye. If you were headed that way—"

"All right, fine, yes." Carver jerked away, still feeling weak and mewling, but now having a use. He could get away from this horrifyingly crowded camp, find the flower, and save one blasted mabari. For the next day or so, until the darkspawn killed it, along with everyone else. White flower, red eye. White flower, red eye.

He headed out the gate, nodding at the guard, and stepped into air that suddenly felt fresh and open. He breathed deep, the painful tightness in his chest finally abating. He took a few more deep breaths just because he could, and set out walking.

He was unsure now why he'd been having such a problem back in the camp; the air couldn't be that different on two sides of a wooden gate. He'd never experienced anything like that before.

 _Oh, well. At least it's me staying here to die, and not Miranda. She'll take care of the family, and I can either get run through by a hurlock or suffocate on camp air, and it won't make a difference to anyone._

Satisfied on that issue at least, Carver headed out into the wilds, his eyes sliding over the landscape in search of his only purpose right now, a white flower with a red eye. To delay a dog's death by as much as a single day.

It only took him half an hour to find the blossom the mabari-keeper wanted. Carver grabbed it, placing it carefully into his pack; he didn't want to get back to find out it wouldn't work if pre-crushed. He eyed the path with mistrust. He knew he had to go back. He'd already decided he wasn't leaving, so he could do nothing but return, now. Go back to camp, save the dog, and die when the darkspawn hit. He drew a deep sigh, shoulders slumped. Then he paused. Did he hear something?

Turning back toward the wilds, he saw a group at some distance. Not darkspawn; people. They walked spread out, unconcerned, not paying much attention to their surroundings. He was able to make them out as they grew closer. Out front, a woman dressed like the wild folk who lived in the area. Behind her, several men that were either knights or soldiers. And behind them … she looked up, grinning when she saw him. Long, delicately tapered ears poked through shoulder-length red hair. Markings on her cheeks and forehead gave her away as one of the Dalish; although, being a full head shorter than anyone else marked her even more clearly. She skipped ahead of the group, fleet and nimble and coming straight toward him.

She skidded to a halt in front of him. "Hello," she said.

"Carver, I'm Carver," he told her. He stuck his hand out, but she only looked at it curiously, tilting her head up at him.

Then realization hit her. "Oh! It's a handclasp greeting. I know about those." She reached out, grasping his arm firmly. She still held him when the others arrived.

"Well, there we are, then," the dark-haired woman said. A staff slung across her back identified her as a witch. "Your camp lies ahead. I trust you can find it from here."

"That's Morrigan," the elf said. "I'm Niamh. This is Alistair. The others—"

"Are completely unimportant in the long run," Morrigan interrupted. "The rest of you have business to which you must attend. I suggest you see to it. I have preparations to make, as well."

With that, the witch left; Carver hardly noticed, still stuck on the red-haired nymph. Niamh, she'd said. _Neee-ev_ , he thought, rolling the sounds around in his mind.

"Are you another Warden recruit, then? Lucky we brought extra … ah, supplies." The man she'd called Alistair smiled at him, friendly. The other two looked surly and uncomfortable; perhaps they didn't like being dismissed as unimportant.

"You're headed back to camp?" Carver could go with them, perhaps. Find out why the Dalish girl was here, in the company of such soldiers.

"Yes, let's go," Niamh said. She tripped ahead, bouncing from fallen log to rock, a playful imp gamboling through the swamps. Carver found himself smiling without knowing quite why.

They separated at camp, Niamh explaining that they had some sort of ritual to attend. Carver left them, wondering at his plodding feet. He gave the flower to the mabari-keeper without comment, and by now it was late enough to retire to his tent. Niamh had promised they would have a party after they won the battle. She'd be on the warden side, but they would meet, she had assured him.

§

Horns sounded before dawn, bringing the entire camp awake and out of bed. Carver swore, throwing his armor on. He was with Loghain's forces, and they needed to be away from the fort, waiting for the signal before coming in and crushing the darkspawn forces in a pincer maneuver. His spirits had risen from yesterday; all these warriors in armor, surely they weren't so bad off as Miranda had said. Besides, there were multiple new wardens being added. Anything that swelled their limited numbers could only be to the good.

When the order came, Carver marched with the others. Then he waited with the others. He'd listened to the gossip today, and apparently Niamh and Alistair would be climbing the tower to send the signal. The moment it was given, Loghain and the other half of the forces would annihilate the darkspawn forces. Maybe the archdemon would show, and they could end this whole Blight today.

Distantly, the sounds of battle began, carrying over the hill to where Teyrn Loghain's armies waited, blind. Carver kept his eyes on the tower. _Come on, Niamh._ He remembered Miranda's dark words about darkspawn under the tower; he hoped they hadn't—there!

The signal flare rose, a crimson streak across the sky. Metal murmured as every soldier shifted his position, ready to go do their part of the battle finally.

"Sound the retreat," Loghain ordered.

 _What?_ Carver gaped in disbelief. That could not be what he had truly heard; half their forces, with the entirety of Ferelden's Grey Warden force as well as _the king himself_ were down there, about to be killed. You couldn't win with only half a pincer.

Loghain's second-in-command must have had the same idea, as she stood arguing with them.

"Sound. The retreat," Loghain said again, loud enough to carry quite a distance down the line. Horns called the sad, disjointed notes that meant they were commanded to leave the field, and soldiers began to move away.

"Wait," Carver said, rooted to his position. "Wait, we can't leave them." A few soldiers glanced his way; more simply kept walking, a few bumping into him, hard, when he refused to move. Carver fought his way out of the line, unable to credit that so many would abandon everything at such a critical moment.

 _What would Miranda do?_ Carver didn't know. But he had to do _something._ "Soldiers of Ferelden!" One or two looked his way, pausing in their retreat march. "I have made an oath to defend my king! You have all done the same. I, for one, do not intend to abandon them when they need us. I, for one, will fight!"

Resounding silence greeted him. _Well, speeches are clearly not something I can do._ But, after a moment, a soldier stepped out of line; then a second, and a third. "With me, with me," Carver called, drawing his sword and running, towards the battle, intent on saving king, and country, and wardens. Perhaps the whole world, if this were a true Blight.

Halfway to the battle, before they could see more than glints of striking metal through the trees, a roar sounded, and through a break in the trees, Carver spotted an ogre at some distance, waving around what looked like a rag doll in—

 _Oh, no._ The golden armor was unmistakeable. Their king struggled in the clutches of an ogre.

 _We must save him!_ Carver pushed himself to sprint faster, but before he'd closed the distance, an echoing howl sent a shudder through his men, and a half dozen shrieks descended upon them. Carver saw the man beside him taken down in a gout of blood, then something hit his back, taking him to the ground. Metal screeched as the thing rent his armor, leaving deep gashes that sank into the flesh beneath. He rolled, trying to force it off him, but the shriek had him pinned, straddling him. Black blooms exploding across his vision obscured everything, and when it lunged for his face, he barely got his left arm up in time to stop it. It seized the arm instead, and the last thing he felt was the thing's fangs ripping through his gauntlet and forearm, the bone crunching within its powerful jaws.

 _Well done, hero. We couldn't have done it without you._


	2. The Witches of the Wilds

Chapter Two

The Witches of the Wilds

Fire. Fire in his lungs, fire in his veins. Carver tried to scream, but all that came out was a sickly groan, nearly a whimper. What was wrong with him?

The room around him closed in, dim and cheerless. He found himself on a dirt floor wrapped in too many blankets, the trapped heat stifling. If he didn't get out of them, he would roast. Maker's breath, he should have gone with Miranda. Struggling out of the pile of furs and blankets, Carver managed to draw a full breath.

That was a mistake. The fire spread, agony roaring through him. He had a choice; he could give into it, pass out, probably die. Instead, he sat up, then used a nearby table to drag himself to his feet. Shaky, but workable. All he had to do was pretend he wasn't burning from the inside out.

Murmured voices floated to him from the next room, and he latched onto them as his lifeline, pulling himself toward them. The voices would have an answer. Either a cure, or more likely, a quick death, but either way, an end to this.

"I didn't drag him back here for no reason, child. It would be a pity to waste him."

Hand over hand, Carver moved along the table, hesitating when he reached the end. Only two steps to take him to the doorway, but it felt now as though his very spirit were consumed by unseen flame.

"I don't know if we even can! I hardly know the ritual, and you only saw yours. And besides, archdemon blood. We'd have to go back to the Keep, assuming it's still there."

He knew that voice, but couldn't place it; he was too absorbed in the now-complex task of moving across a room. Carver took the first step, half-crouched as though to sneak past the agony; it didn't help. Wooziness crept up from his legs to his head, pulling a soft blanket over the argument in the next room, making it quiet, less important. He only had to get as far as the door. Or, he could lie down now.

"Alistair, the charms! To remember the fallen. It's got archdemon blood in it, too. We can do this. We have to. Why should I be saved, and he die screaming? It's what Duncan would do."

The dizziness overtook him, and he fell, sprawling into the doorway. He cracked his head on the door, sending it swinging fully open.

"Tis an answer of sorts, is it not?"

Carver tried to tell them to stop, not to touch him; each hand on his body, turning him, lifting him, felt sharp as fangs. Darkspawn fangs, actually.

 _Like the ones that caused this,_ he remembered. Needle-sharp teeth ripping into the muscle, shredding it away from the bone. Carver shuddered, but it turned into a shivering fit. He was dying of the darkspawn illness.

"Carver, you shall be all right. I swear it." Her hand, cooling somehow, brushed his forehead, and his moan this time was pure relief.

"Here, Carver. Drink this. Say the words fast, Alistair." Through the blurriness obscuring his vision, he saw a flash of red. Her hair? Her hand lifted his head, the other offering a cup for him to drink from. Her third hand, somehow, stayed on his forehead, cooling him. He drank, regretting it the instant the foul liquid touched his tongue. It was the taste of the agony now running through him, it was poison, it was the darkspawn illness come to take him.

"Nnn," he moaned. Struggling weakly, he tried to push the glass away, but too late.

"Shhh. Hush now, Carver. Tis all right. You shall rest, and feel better soon." Her hand stayed on his forehead, soothing him into sleep. He hoped he didn't wake.

§

The room seemed brighter when he opened his eyes. Carver wondered whether that was the dawn, or the effect of whatever potion they'd forced into him. He sat up slowly, giving his body plenty of time to lodge every protest against the motion. He felt as though the ogre may have stomped him half to death while he slept.

His left arm was wrapped, heavy bandages that were soaked with blood and … other things. The hand obeyed when he tried to clench his fist, though it did send a sickening bolt of pain up his arm. _Okay, I need to try to rest that injury, still._

"You're back, then."

Turning, Carver saw the wilds witch standing across the room, her face impassive.

"I trust you are feeling at least somewhat better, are you not?" Her eyebrows raised, polite, inquisitive; no other emotion apparent in her gaze.

"I think I'll live." _Whether I want to is a different question._ "What did you give me?" He pushed the thin sheet aside, swinging his legs off the bed. They'd put him in the bed, this time? Curious.

"That," she said, "is not my tale to tell. Come, your fellow warriors await. Your clothes are here." She gestured to a pile on the table, then turned for the door. "If you need assistance, be sure to let us know."

"I'm fine," he snapped. Bad enough they had undressed him; he didn't need the witch helping get his breeches back on again.

"Then do hurry. Big decisions to be be made." She smiled a cryptic smile with some hidden meaning he did not understand, and swept out.

Once she was gone, he reconsidered whether "fine" was accurate. The unspeakable agony had abated some, but every muscle felt cold and leaden, as though he had been raised from the dead. Getting dressed was not going to be pleasant.

"I can ask for help with armor, at least." It would not be unusual to have a squire or comrade make sure one was fully protected … assuming his armor was in any condition to be used again. As he recalled, the shriek had damaged quite a bit of it. He stood, this time suppressing the groan, and hobbled over to his clothes. He hoped he would be able to move more smoothly once he warmed everything up.

It took a few minutes, but soon enough he made his way through the door, surprised to discover it was not a second room as he'd thought, but the marshes. Two of the Wardens from earlier waited, sitting around a fire eating, as well as Morrigan and an older woman he did not know.

"You're alive," Niamh said. Her grin took the last of the sting out of his sore muscles, and he straightened.

"It would take more than the entire amassed darkspawn army to bring me down. I'm glad you were able to heal me."

"Not a healing, exactly," Alistair said.

"What do you mean?" Carver accepted the bowl of stew when Morrigan handed it to him. The stew itself was fine, but the taste of the cure they'd given him had stayed in his mouth and overpowered it. Carver set the bowl down.

"It was the only way to save you." Niamh took his hand in both of hers, brows furrowed anxiously so that her clan markings folded. "We wouldn't have done it otherwise."

"You're a Grey Warden now," Alistair said, apparently tiring of Niamh's more circuitous approach. "You will be a warden, and fight the darkspawn, until you die young. It's not all bad, though. We get to be heroes, and the food is amazing." He gestured with the bowl in his hand.

"A warden," Carver repeated. A Grey Warden. Well, you couldn't say he didn't pick an interesting end, anyway. "Well, I suppose we're to keep fighting the Blight, then? How many wardens survived Ostagar?"

"Well, there's you … me … Niamh, of course …." He counted on his fingers, as if the entire thing were a huge jest. "Oh, there's bunches in Orlais, I believe. I think we have a good chance, here." Alistair smiled, and Carver found himself wanting to punch that mouth until the stupid jokes stopped.

"Three of us? Three, to fight all the darkspawn in Ferelden?" _Well done, Carver. You've managed to delay your death until the first big group of 'spawn you find. You should have left with Miranda. You didn't accomplish anything by staying, anyway._ The image of Cailan wriggling in the grasp of that foul beast popped into his head, and he forced it back down. That one wasn't his fault. That was—

"Loghain," Carver growled.

Alistair's face darkened. "Yes, I think we'll need to pay him a visit, as well. What happened? Were you with him? Was he ambushed before he could answer our signal?"

Squirming uncomfortably, Carver looked to the dirt. He knew it had not been his decision, yet he felt responsible. "He left the field."

"Left the—I'm sorry, I can't quite hear you. It sounded like you said he _left?_ Just wandered off, leaving king, and wardens, and a huge chunk of Ferelden's strength to be wiped out? What, did he have more pressing business elsewhere?"

Carver nodded, unable to answer. Worse than Loghain was seeing his friends walk away; worse still, the ones he convinced to stay. Had anyone else survived the battle, besides the two wardens? Any of the soldiers? The mages? He didn't dare ask yet.

"My, what illustrious circles you all move in. Now, I don't mean to rush you, but—"

"Quiet, girl. Our guests will move on when they're ready." The older woman's eyes roved over each of them in turn, and Niamh sprung to her feet.

"No, Morrigan's right. We have the treaties, after all—and thank you again, Flemeth, for their safe-keeping. We should go, recruit as many armies as we can, and bury this darkspawn horde back underground where they belong."

"You're right." Alistair set his bowl down, rising beside her. "We can also go see Arl Eamon. I know him, and he knows enough of the Teryns to bring a huge army together. Bigger than the one we lost. We can't get moving fast enough."

Carver stared at them, wondering if their sudden optimism was at all founded. Could they really push the darkspawn back after all this?

Did it even matter? "It's not as though we have another choice." He shrugged, hiding the wince as he came to his feet. "I'm ready when you are, then."

"Oh, going so soon, such a shame, fare thee well." Morrigan gathered their bowls, crowding them so they were forced to shuffle further away from the fire. "It has been an honor and a delight to house you … and feed you," she added in a mutter.

"I have another gift," Flemeth announced. Alistair and Niamh looked at her attentively, but Morrigan had tensed. Carver watched her, instead; her face once more wore her impassive mask, smooth as a mirror and giving no clue as to her thoughts.

 _She already knows what the old woman is going to say._

"You will take my daughter with you. She's a … more or less accomplished mage, so she should be of some use."

"More or less?" Morrigan echoed through gritted teeth.

Alistair and Niamh launched into a discussion of whether they were recruiting, or whether an apostate was really going to be helpful once they moved into populated areas. The noise pressed into Carver's skull until he was ready to scream at them to stop it.

"Enough! We take her," he decided. _There, argument over._ "A mage is always helpful, and if she were prone to demonic possession, I think we'd know about it by now."

Flemeth laughed suddenly, harsh, raspy caws that quickly devolved into coughing. When Morrigan reached for her, Flemeth waved her away. "No, no, I'm fine. Just old. Well, you had better all get moving, then. I'm quite interested to see how this all turns out."

"Hopefully the right way." Carver reconsidered. "Or at least quickly. Are we ready to go?"

Alistair shrugged, but Niamh nodded.

"Let's get going," she said.

"Lothering is closest. North. You can resupply there … among other tasks." Flemeth paused before turning to her hut. "Behave yourself, girl."

In response, Morrigan muttered something about not being a child. Wonderful; it seemed all three were children, in different ways. Alistair would make jokes while the world was at death's door, Morrigan was going to pout, and Niamh once more looked anxious, although what could be bothering her now, he didn't know.

"I'm guessing you know the route best, Morrigan. Will you lead us?" Carver asked.

Morrigan smiled, that cryptic smile that might mean anything or nothing. "Delighted to. Come on, then." She started off, setting their path and pace to bring them out of the swamps and hopefully, into Lothering. Just before they stepped into the large, gnarled cypress trees that lined the clearing, she looked back.

Her mother was gone, and Morrigan spent a long moment looking back at the house. "This was not exactly how I had planned to leave forever."

"What, darkspawn attack, all Ferelden in danger, and three Grey Wardens to accompany you? That isn't what you have written in your diary?" Alistair's face was a pantomime of exaggerated shock.

"Enough. Let us be on," she snapped, pushing forward, and not sparing another glance to the home she'd so long shared with Flemeth, as the witches of the wilds.

§

"Why is the ground so _wet?"_ Niamh wailed, picking out every rock and tree root to avoid the sucking mud.

"Wasn't it ever wet in the forest?" Alistair asked.

"No, not like this. I don't like this. This is … oh, not again." Her footing had slipped, and Carver saw she'd lost a boot to the muck.

He dropped back, yanking it out of the black mud and handing it back to her.

"Thank you," she said, tilting her chin down.

Morrigan's glare at the rest of them felt as icy as her tone. "May I ask, is the entire journey going to pass like this? I am not sure if—"

"Quiet," Carver said. He heard something. Hand resting on his sword, he waited until it came again; there. Rustling, from a run of bushes a few meters ahead. He gestured for the others to stay, then drew his sword over his shoulder. Stepping quietly, he came to the moving bushes. Was it a darkspawn? Or something else? Maker preserve them, was it something worse?

Carver readied himself to strike, then bent to grab a rock. He tossed it in the bushes, hoping to flush whatever it was out. He was rewarded with a startled yelp. "Is that a dog?" he asked. What would a dog be doing so far out here in the wilds?

It came forward then, densely muscled and its short hair matted with mud. It sat next to him, almost as high as his waist, and it never stopped wagging and smiling in that shame-faced way certain dogs have.

"You're the mabari from camp, aren't you?" Carver said. In response, it wagged harder, wiggling its entire rear. _She,_ Carver remembered; the dog had been a bitch.

"Just what we need." Morrigan spoke at his shoulder, startling him; he'd never heard her move. "A mangy animal to follow us around and beg for scraps."

"No, we can use it, really," Alistair said. "They're great fighters. Come here. Come here, dog. Doggie. Dog-dog, come." He knelt, snapping his fingers. Besides him, Niamh did the same, making some clicking noise with her tongue.

The mabari ignored them all; she had eyes only for Carver.

Morrigan apparently agreed. "It looks as though you have a friend."

Sighing, Carver patted his leg; immediately, the animal bounded over to him, jumping up to place its paws on his chest. "Oof!" Craver staggered back under her weight. "All right, all right. Down, girl." The mabari dropped to all fours in instant obedience, though her rear kept swinging wildly, trying to wag.

 _At least I did save someone by staying at Ostagar._ She was only a mabari, but she was alive because of him. He hadn't saved king, or country, or any of the wardens, but he had saved this pup.

"What will you call her?" Alistair asked. "Oooh, how about Barkspawn? Grrrlock?" His face had lit up like a child's on Feastday.

"You could call her Fen'harel," Niamh suggested, also excited, but a shade more calm than Alistair.

"Call it dead if it chews on any of my things," Morrigan sniped.

"Ooh, what's she going to do, eat the other half of your shirt?" Alistair asked.

Niamh smothered a laugh as Morrigan looked down at her clothes.

"I'm calling her Victory. And stop bickering already," Carver said. This was going to be a long journey if they couldn't go two minutes without being rude to each other.

"Vicky it is!" Alistair grinned, dropping back to dog-level.

"It's Victory." Carver glowered; if he had to keep a dog, he at least got to name the damn thing.

"Vicky! Hey, Vicky! Do you want to run ahead and scout with me?" Alistair asked.

Victory shook her back end so hard it looked like it might fall off, and she chased Alistair into the trees when he ran.

"Alistair, wait," Niamh called, trotting after him.

Carver looked after them in disbelief, wondering if there was something seriously wrong with the man.

Morrigan sidled up close beside him. "Keep the dog if you must, but we should give serious thought to leaving Alistair behind in the wilderness."

This startled a laugh out of him. Leave Alistair behind; that might make the quest a good deal more bearable. He kept laughing, trailing off slowly while Morrigan watched, a faint smile on her face.

"Come on," he told her. "Let's catch up with them before they do anything silly."

"Toooo late," Morrigan sang, making her way along the path. Carver followed, still chuckling at intervals as he followed his strange companions through the swamp.


	3. Lothering

Chapter Three

Lothering

Carver had begun to grow uneasy. "Do you smell that? It smells … almost burnt." _It smells evil,_ he wanted to say, but didn't want to look foolish in front of his new companions.

"It's probably stew. Fereldens make the best stew, you know." Alistair sounded sincere and dreamy, but Carver suspected the man was joking again. "All grey and edible. We can eat as soon as we get to Lothering."

It hadn't taken them long; soon they would start to see outlying huts of people who lived near the village. It wasn't food on Carver's mind, however. There was something _wrong._ The pain in his arm increased from the dull throb he'd had all day, to an intense stabbing pain, as though it were still fresh.

Morrigan had walked out ahead a bit, while Victory bounced in circles about her, trying to entice her into play.

Carver looked instead to Niamh. "Do you smell it?"

The elf stopped, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. She breathed deep. "You're right, I do smell it. Maybe … a campfire? Roasting meat?" Her tone uncertain, she slowly shook her head. "Not quite those, but close, I …." Her long ears twitched, and she suddenly stiffened. "Do you _hear_ it?" she asked.

"Hear what?" Carver replied, but she had already started running, sprinting beyond Morrigan and drawing her bow without slowing. He and Alistair looked at each other, then broke, chasing after her.

"Where are you all—"

They ignored Morrigan as they followed Niamh, still gaining speed as she crested the last hill overlooking Lothering. She gave them one stricken look, then disappeared, down the hill into the village.

"What do you think she's—?"

"No, time, Alistair." He heard it now; the elves must have ears like forest harts. But now he heard it, the sound was unmistakable. Screaming, shouting, and metal against metal. The darkspawn had beaten them here.

 _Did Miranda get here in time to get them out? Or is my entire family down in the village somewhere? Will I arrive just in time to see them slaughtered, too?_

Behind him, Victory gave an anxious bark, and finally left Morrigan alone, instead tearing off after Niamh. She bayed as she passed Carver, a low sound that—he hoped—presaged death for the monstrous creatures that must even now be destroying his family's home.

Carver paused briefly at the top of the hill, unable to credit his eyes. There weren't as many as at Ostagar, but this was worse. The bodies he saw littered around weren't soldiers, but helpless farmers and townspeople. People he knew. People who would have been his friends, had he ever made any.

Alistair panted as he drew even to Carver. "So, what's got into you two? Oh, no," he said, seeing what lay ahead.

Spurred into motion, Carver sprinted headlong into the fray. He had to find them. He had to know for sure whether they were safe, or ….

 _Or gone already. Safe or gone, those are the only two possibilities._ A hurlock sprung into his path, and Carver drew, swinging the sword around in a hard arc without changing course. He cut through them like they were spirits, unsubstantial, knowing only that he must reach the farm and assure their safety. Niamh had commandeered herself a roof already; she sat atop the tavern, putting arrow after arrow into the darkspawn.

"Niamh, with me," Carver shouted. He had stopped too long; a noise behind him alerted him to the hurlock there, but he was turning too slowly, he wouldn't get his sword up in time.

A brown blur hit, snarling and frothing, and Victory ripped the hurlock's throat out.

"With me, with me," Carver cried. He ran, Victory drawing a few paces ahead, and Niamh at his side. They would be gone already. There would be a message, saying they'd left for Kirkwall days ago. How long had he been unconscious after the battle? A few days, surely. Plenty of time for Miranda to have gotten home, and taken Mother and Bethany away. He thought to ask how long he'd been out, but running in full armor was proving difficult enough already.

Another group of darkspawn approached, four of them, and Carver lunged toward the one in the middle. Victory wheeled, coming back, and landed hard on another. The other two fell in short order to Niamh's arrows. The farmhouse lay just on the other side of that wall.

But Carver's legs trembled; he was so winded already. "Go. Farmhouse. Family," he said, gasping between words. Niamh glanced where he pointed, then nodded.

"Victory, come!" she shouted.

Carver forced himself to start moving again, but already elf and hound pulled far ahead. He pushed himself to keep a punishingly cruel pace, but it wasn't going to be fast enough. He scrambled up the wall, saw their house, still standing … but barely. The roof had crumbled in, and soot smeared the walls. Someone had tried to burn them out.

He dropped from the wall, landing at a gallop, praying they would have gone this way. Away from the village, not into it; Miranda knew that much, didn't she?

A blue flash lighted ahead; magic. _Bethany._ They were here, still.

 _Damn you, Miranda._ He found reserves of energy he'd thought were depleted. Ahead, Niamh had been forced to pause, as a group of a dozen darkspawn lay around her, another dozen on their feet. She backed away, no tremor betraying any fear as she nocked, drew, released, dropping another; then nocked, drew, released again. Victory did her part; almost half the darkspawn already down were missing large chunks from throat or chest.

"Down!" Carver shouted when he reached them. He swung his sword around with all his strength. It bit into the last half-dozen remaining enemies, then he ran ahead; Niamh and Victory could finish them. He hoped he was still heading toward the blue flash he had seen. He hoped nothing had gotten her yet. Before he'd joined the army, they'd never spent a day apart. Mother claimed they embraced in the cradle, and wailed without stop if she ever tried to separate them.

 _Well, Mother was always full of stupid stories._ He leaned forward, trying to propel himself up yet another hill, but at the the top— _I see them!_

"Bethany," he shouted, exulted. She turned, surprise on her features. Behind her, a form moved in the smoke.

 _No. No, not now._

It stepped closer, Bethany turning back too slow to avoid its grasping hand, and the ogre raised her off the ground. For a moment, he was certain somehow that it was the same one who killed Cailan.

Carver sank to his knees, even as Victory bolted past him; she had several meters to go, she wouldn't make it.

An arrow sailed over his head, striking true at the ogre's eye. It yowled, dropping Bethany. A moment later, both Victory and Miranda flung themselves onto the creature. Beside him, Niamh stood stock-still, face blank while she put arrow after arrow into the thing; it was a wonder she never hit the humans.

Somehow, Carver found his feet, stumbling towards them. When he reached Bethany, he tripped just as she fell into his arms, and they ending up weaving, barely still standing.

"Carver, you made it," Mother said. Tears ran down her face, and Carver drew her into the hug.

"I'm here, Mother. I'm here."

The ogre gave a final howling shriek and fell, Miranda and Victory jumping clear at the last second. Miranda smirked, eyeing the show of family affection from outside, with something that looked like contempt. "Well, you're a little late. We had to start the party without you."

Drawing away from Mother and Bethany, Carver rounded on her. "Why aren't you gone yet? You were supposed to keep them safe."

The smile never left Miranda's face, and she didn't didn't flinch back. "I'd say I'm a swordsman short of being able to defend the family properly, wouldn't you?"

Niamh was suddenly beside him, a hand on his arm. "I'm glad they are safe, at any rate," she prompted him.

"What about Lena?" Carver asked. Their cousin should be here this time of year, shouldn't she? "Is Lena with you?"

Bethany shook her head. "Carver, she … she hasn't visited in over a year. I'm beginning to worry they've done something horrible to her at the tower."

Carver hugged her tight. "Don't worry, Bethany, I'll make sure she's all right. Now, go. Please." He needed them all to be safe; they had to be out of Ferelden and away from the Blight. "Your path looks clear now, I think."

"Oh, I think we'll manage," Miranda said. "With or without you, apparently."

"Without?" Bethany took his hand. "Aren't you coming, brother?"

He looked from his twin Bethany, to his mother, both pleading with their eyes, to his sister Miranda, looking at him as though he were scum for trying to stay with the army like he was supposed to. "I can't, Bethany. I have a duty here."

"But Carver—" Leandra wailed.

"Victory." Carver squatted, placing his hand on the mabari's head. "This is my family. Bethany, Leandra, Miranda." He pointed to each in turn, hoping the dog would get it. "You are going with them. You keep them safe. Understand me?"

Victory whined, but when he nudged her, she moved to stand beside Bethany.

"In that order, I suppose," Miranda said. "First Bethany, then Mother, then me, if there's time."

Carver snorted. "You, I'm not worried about. Keep them safe, sister."

"I will." She held out her arm, and Carver clasped her wrist, surprised that she'd deign to treat him as an equal. "Vivat Hawke, I suppose. But if you're staying, Carv, I expect you to finish off the whole Blight and be back with us by Feastday. No dawdling, mind me."

"They have to go soon, or they'll miss the opportunity," Niamh said, eyes distant while her ears twitched, listening to sounds none of the humans could hear. "More coming, and the path will soon be closed."

"Go," Carver urged again. "Vivat Hawke." Vivat some of the Hawkes, anyway. Bethany and Leandra and Miranda, and possibly Lena, if he could manage it.

Leandra tried to argue again, but Miranda grabbed one arm, marching her away. Bethany took the other, both supporting her and trying to slow Miranda; not that Bethany ever could sway Miranda from the path she'd decided to take. Miranda always did have the idea that every problem could be solved by brute force and determination.

"There are more darkspawn in the village," Niamh said, turning back the way they'd come.

"All right," Carver said, turning away from his family. He'd forgotten to tell them he would catch up in Kirkwall when he could.

 _They'll know once I get there. And, they'll know I was a Grey Warden and really did stop the damn Blight._

Jogging back to the main battle, unable to find the speed he had before, Carver mostly saw bodies. A few townspeople that he kept from examining too closely, but many more were darkspawn. Most had arrows projecting from an eye or neck. _Niamh's quite the archer._ The closer he got to the village center, the more darkspawn were still alive. He had no trouble dispatching the few he ran into; they were just as fatigued by now as he was. He made his way through, killing whatever darkspawn he could, hoping he'd find that neither Morrigan nor Alistair had gotten themselves killed while he was engaged.

He found some of his people at the tavern. Niamh had reclaimed her roof, and another archer sat beside her. Between them, they had a clear shot of nearly every path in Lothering. Swordplay ringing from the west gave him a location on Alistair, but he sounded like he was doing all right. He didn't see Morrigan yet.

The darkspawn forces died down to a trickle, and soon they were only mopping up, putting not-quite-dead downed creatures out of their misery. The squalling clamor slowly quieted, now the majority of them were dead.

"Niamh, do you hear them?"

She looked up from a corpse; she was testing the draw on a darkspawn's bow. Standing, she listened, then nodded to him. "Alistair and a giant come this way. Morrigan is east, just outside the village. She's burning the creatures that tried to retreat."

 _Giant? What giant?_ "Excellent." Now that the battle was more or less over, Carver could feel himself again. Pain in his legs, his arms exhausted from swinging the heavy greatsword, his lungs burning from trying to bring in enough of the smoke-laden air. His left arm in particular pained him, aching as if the darkspawn bite was in sympathy with their slain enemies. He sat down hard, unable to keep his feet a moment longer.

"So many bodies. Did we save anyone?" he wondered.

Niamh shrugged. "We got here when we got here. A few had already fled. We saved your family. We do what we can." She offered him her waterskin, then sat next to him. She leaned against him, a silent show of support.

He leaned back. At least the family had gotten away. There were no darkspawn in Kirkwall. At least they would be safe.

"Well," Alistair called when he saw them. "That was quite the introduction. Have you met Sten? He was terrifying. He wants to come with us." He gestured toward the "giant" Niamh had mentioned, in truth a hornless qunari … though giant wasn't too far off.

"Leliana as well." Niamh nodded toward the second archer, a red-headed woman in blood-spattered chantry robes, who as yet had said nothing. "Is that all right, Carver?"

"You're asking me?" He couldn't make sense of it. What qualified him?

"Warden meeting." Niamh shrugged, smiling. "We could take a vote?"

"I vote bring them. More fighters always better," Alistair said.

"I agree. And we already lost the dog." Niamh took her skin back, taking a long pull from it.

Alistair's face fell. "We lost Victoria Anne Barkspawn? Oh, no."

"No, no. She was sent to help some … uh, refugees," Niamh explained, shooting a glance at Carver.

"Oh, well. I guess that's all right." Alistair still sounded disappointed. "So we're two for the idea of bringing in new recruits. Carver?"

Carver looked from Alistair to Niamh. He still had no idea why they wanted his opinion. Hadn't they already decided? But, warden meeting, Niamh had said. There were the three wardens left in all of Ferelden, apparently, and he was one of them. "It couldn't hurt," he agreed.

Niamh cheered, throwing her arms around the woman—Leliana, she'd said.

 _Fast friends._ "Well, are you hugging your friend, Alistair?" Carver asked.

"I'm … not sure he's the hugging type." Alistair threw the qunari a nervous glance.

"I am not," Sten confirmed in a low growl.

"And if anyone tries to hug me, they'll burn as the darkspawn did." Morrigan appeared around the edge of the tavern, covered in ash and soot, with a slightly crazed grin on her face.

"That's our resident witch," Alistair murmured to Sten.

Morrigan glanced around at their small group, not nearly as small now, and sighed in disgust. "I told you to keep the dog and lose the idiot, and what do you do?"

 _Not again._ "All right, enough. Let's move. We'll want to make camp soon, and I don't want to do it in any part of Lothering. Gather whatever you can use and we'll be leaving in ten minutes. We can camp a little ways outside the village, and figure out where we're going to go next."

Alistair offered him a hand, and he accepted it, hauling himself upward once more. He'd been a Grey Warden for a day, and he was already exhausted.

 _Who knows? Perhaps a few more people will give Alistair and Morrigan someone to talk to so they don't have to fight._

"Did you bathe in darkspawn blood? Are you aware that it is not a cologne?" Morrigan snapped.

"I'm sorry, next time I'll try eau de charred flesh." Alistair leaned toward her, sniffing loudly at her. "I'm sure it's all the rage in the witches' swamps of Orlais."

 _Or perhaps not._

Unease slithered into his stomach and Carver looked out over the hills, suddenly certain that while his family may have gotten away, they had their own battle coming. Would they be safe? Should he have gone with them, after all?

"Are you all right?" Niamh asked, a hand on his shoulder.

His heart sped at the contact, at the way her face smiled up at him from her diminutive height. "Yes, I'll … I'll be fine," he said.

Niamh smoothed her hair back from her face, then turned back to Leliana. "Come on, I saw some archers this way. Something tells me we'll need a lot of arrows."

A lot of arrows. Oh, that was a certainty. Had the darkspawn been full force at Ostagar, or would they be rebuilding armies even as the Fereldens were? Were they even now somewhere below his feet, giving arms and armor to an endless line of monsters from every child's nightmares?

"Well, come on, Carver. You said we have to get moving. Let's _goooo,"_ Alistair called.


	4. Making Camp

Chapter Four

Camp

They camped about an hour north of Lothering, most of them ready to sleep where they dropped. Leliana, having had a shorter day, felt fresh enough to make something for the group to eat, telling Orlesian-accented stories the entire time that no one was quite awake enough to listen to.

"Thank you," Carver said when accepting his bowl, truly meaning it. He hadn't gotten enough to eat yesterday, and nearly succumbing to the darkspawn taint and instead being transformed into a Warden, then marching all day to get to battle … he found it tiring, he thought dryly. At least the bite on his arm had quieted again; it hurt, but not as much as when they'd been fighting the darkspawn.

"I won't be cooking every night," Leliana warned. "Should we make a rotating schedule, or …?"

"I do not cook. Cooking is done by others." Sten's permanent glare did not alter as he spoke.

"Sten, that's ridiculous. What if you're in a group of only warriors, and you're traveling a great distance? Do you not eat until you return home? There isn't always an inn." Leliana smiled, her tone reasonable, but Carver had to hide a grin.

"Of course not. Someone is assigned to cook." Sten shifted, looking as though he'd sat on a nettle.

"By whom?" Leliana asked.

"By the most senior warrior," Sten explained. Now, he looked as though he'd bit into a lemon. Niamh giggled, and Alistair chuckled quietly until the giant glared at him.

"Well, who's the senior here?" Leliana looked around in an exaggerated manner, as if she truly didn't know yet who was running the show.

"Ooh, that would be me," Alistair said, waving his arm around like a child. "And, I was the one who broke you out of your cage, and you swore your service to me, too. So Sten, you're assigned to cook tomorrow."

" _Vashedan,"_ Sten swore.

Carver looked to Morrigan, to see if she was enjoying this as much as everyone else was, but she'd moved further away from the fire than he'd thought. That was odd.

"Leliana," he asked, "did Morrigan get anything to eat?"

"Oh! I didn't see her." Her hands flapped in front of her, flustered. "I didn't mean to—"

"Don't worry, I've got it." He filled another bowl, balancing that one and his own on one arm so he could also drag his blankets over to Morrigan's, far enough away that the talk of the rest faded into a gentle murmur.

"You almost missed dinner, you know." Carver handed her a bowl.

She didn't reach for a moment, then moved slowly to accept it. "I did not expect anyone to notice," she said. Her golden eyes evaluated him,making him feel like she could see right into his mind.

Carver fought the urge to confess. To what, he didn't know; but her penetrating gaze told him there must be something of which he was guilty. "May I sit down?"

"I cannot prevent it." Morrigan shrugged one shoulder; the act and words were both neutral, but Carver got the strangest impression that she was pleased.

After placing his blankets over the patchy grass and smoothing them out, Carver sat down, spooning the vegetable-laden broth into his mouth. This was nothing like the stews they had here; maybe Orlais wasn't all bad, if this was how they learned to cook.

Morrigan tried hers as well, seeming to find it acceptable, then her eyes narrowed again in suspicion. "Why are you not sitting as close as possible to the little elf? Did she find your advances irritating?"

Carver sputtered, choking on a mouthful of soup. "Excuse me, advances? I have made no advances, I assure you."

"Oh, no outright advances yet? The way you were mooning over her big green eyes, I would have thought—"

"There was no mooning!" Carver roared, loud enough for the others at the main camp to turn his way. He waved them off—everything's fine here, no need to worry—before turning back to Morrigan and hissing under his breath, "There was absolutely no mooning."

"Well, that's good to hear. You're too complex to be wasted on her. I think she favors 'simple,' at any rate." Morrigan spooned broth into her mouth, but mischievous eyes gauged his reaction.

She would not be disappointed; Carver whirled around, measuring the paltry distance between Niamh and Alistair. They not only sat close, but leaned into one or the other every few seconds. Alistair must have said something funny, as Niamh laughed hard enough to choke, and he had to thump her on the back. But a moment later, the elf was smiling up at him, the picture of ….

Carver felt sick. By the time he turned back, Morrigan's face was composed, once more giving nothing away. "Already?" asked Carver, meaning the two wardens.

"Things happen fastest when the world is uncertain. But come now, Carver, be reasonable. Do you really want someone who thinks Alistair's jokes are funny?"

At that, Carver did laugh. "Maybe she's missing something in translation, and it becomes funny?"

Morrigan laughed now, too, and Carver felt a little better. He gave a final glance back toward the others when he finished eating, just to confirm. At that point, Alistair leaned close to Niamh, murmuring something that clearly no one else was meant to hear. Carver turned away. Time to close that book, then.

 _At least Morrigan seems willing to be friends,_ he thought. Niamh may have already decided he wasn't worth anything, but Morrigan seemed to enjoy talking to him. He found himself wanting to build on that, to stay close and become friends.

"You know, you're not protected this far out if there's an attack on the camp. We should move closer before bedding down."

Morrigan raised an eyebrow; she had already crawled into her blankets. "You can move if you like. I am more than capable of taking care of myself." She pulled the blankets up to her chin, burrowing into them. Conversation over, apparently.

Carver thought of going back to the main group. Niamh and Alistair were likely too paired up to talk to anyone else, and he didn't know either Leliana or Sten before this afternoon. He'd seen Leliana, of course, wandering around the chantry, but it wasn't as though he attended. "Do … do you mind if I stay here?"

"Suit yourself." The words were muffled by the layers of blankets, but again, he thought she sounded mildly pleased. "But sometimes I sleep-talk, which means I might sleep-cast. If you wake up three feet from a giant spider, don't attack it, it's me."

Carver snorted. "As long as you don't sleep-turn-into-spider and then go crawling into other people's blankets for warmth, I think we'll be fine." He settled into his own bed, grateful to have enough furs and skins among thinner blankets; this far from the fire, the night would get colder than he was used to.

Morning came earlier than he'd liked, and Sten was not as adept at cooking at he was swinging a sword, so Carver's mood had already gotten prickly by the time Alistair and Niamh pulled him aside.

"Morning, Carver. Grey Warden meeting, right this way." Alistair grabbed his arm, frog-marching him some way from the others.

"What?" Carver asked, pulling his arm back. He didn't tolerate it from his sister, he wasn't going to tolerate from another Warden. He made a show of rotating the arm, as if ensuring it was still in the socket.

"We think you missed some of our plans yesterday. You were still … tainted out." Niamh spoke over his shoulder, then behind him, before Carver realized her eyes were tracking a butterfly as she spoke.

"Right," said Alistair, taking over. "So, look, the wardens have these treaties guaranteeing help and armies and hopefully, at some point, baked goods. I'm wondering if it was worth it asking Sten to cook … we don't want him to get away with anything, but us eating his food seems more a punishment for us than for him …."

Carver ran a hand down his face, counseling himself to have patience. By now, Niamh had wandered away, chasing the butterfly, and Alistair was clearly more concerned with a subpar breakfast than their actual duty. "The point, Alistair?"

"Oh, right. So, we have to go all the way to Orzammar to ask the dwarves for help, then find the Dalish. They're usually somewhere in or around the Brecilian Forest, but they might take some finding. We can recruit mages at the Circle Tower, which should be easier. At least they're stationary, right?" He chuckled, but seemed to give up when Carver wouldn't join in. He cleared his throat before continuing. "Right. So, ah, we've got those to do, then also, I think we should see the Arl of Redcliffe. I know him, and I think he can help us gather all the arls' armies, give us a much better chance of building a good, solid force. The only question is, which way first?"

Niamh made her way back to them, looking as though she'd done it by accident. "Every direction would be best."

Quite an archer, but a little loopy. Already he was beginning to forget why he'd had a crush on her in the first place. "We can't exactly go every direction first, though," Carver pointed out.

"No, not every single one. We don't have the men, for starters." Alistair shrugged, and they all looked toward their group. In addition to the three wardens, they had an archer, a qunari warrior, and a witch of the wilds, not one of which was sworn to do a warden's duty.

Carver sighed; again, they were waiting on his decision. "We could split in two directions, at least. But I throw my vote on all of us going to your arl, first. It's close enough, and maybe he can tell us the lay of the land. We can split from there, and Redcliffe is as good a place as any to keep our armies."

"I was hoping you'd say that!" Alistair clapped him on the back hard. "We're going to be good friends, you and me."

Carver's eyes widened as he fought back every instinctual response to that. "I … hope … we are," he managed, each word a struggle. "Niamh?"

She turned from where she stood on one leg, balanced on a log that threatened to roll under her weight. "Redcliffe is fine, I suppose. But we will go multiple directions after, won't we? We're delivering treaties and demanding help. It shouldn't take a full force."

 _Not that we have a full force in the first place._ "We can make that determination later. At the very least, we would need enough people to ensure everyone's safety during the journey, and I'm not sure a single warden with … um, non-wardens is the best way to speak to either dwarves or elves. They might see it as an insult."

Alistair followed Carver's gaze to the group again. It wasn't just numbers. Leliana was a phenomenal archer with other unnerving skills for a chantry sister to have … Sten apparently had been sprung from a crow's cage; he was in it for multiple murders … and Morrigan was, well, Morrigan.

"Who knows?" Alistair asked. "Maybe we'll make new friends and allies along the way. Maybe by the end of the week, we'll have a dragon to fly us around, deliver our messages, and set fire to our enemies!"

Niamh giggled, but Carver only sighed again.

"Let's break camp," he decided. _I'm not sure on splitting. Either one of them might wander off unattended, and if we sent them together, we might only end up losing them both._

§

Once he'd gotten them moving, the journey to Redcliffe was only a couple days. They camped overnight by Lake Calenhad—the mage's tower visible from their shoreline, if not reachable—and continued on. Leliana, in addition to being an accomplished storyteller and singer, keeping them all entertained at night, had also revealed that she had spent some time as a "bard," which she described as being some kind of assassin who also pulled heists. While keeping people entertained. From that little admission, Carver learned not to underestimate Leliana, and that he would never understand Orlais.

Sten, in contrast, was not as entertaining. He was quiet, for starters, and seemed to prefer solitude as much as Morrigan, though in a different way. Sten preferred to stay in the center and create solitude around him, while Morrigan preferred to start with distance, and discourage others from visiting.

Most others, at any rate. Carver found he was welcome, bringing her a portion of the morning and night's meal, then sitting with her to eat. They never seemed to run out of things to talk about. If there was a lull, they could easily overhear Niamh of Alistair saying something that they just had to mock. By the third day of travel, Morrigan had an "Alistair face" that she would pull, sending Carver immediately into a fit of laughter. In return, he would affect an absent gaze and start talking to clouds, causing Morrigan to start cackling.

"You two are being very silly back there," Alistair called, and at that both of them pealed forth gales of laughter.

Once he had the chuckling under control, Carver caught up to Alistair. "What's got you so agitated? We're almost there." The last signpost had claimed they were within a mile of the place, so they must be nearly on top of it by now.

"Yes, I know, it's just …." Alistair trailed off, and Niamh placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Go ahead, tell him," she prompted.

Alistair nodded, setting his shoulders back. "It's like this—"

"Sers, sers!" A young man came sprinting up to them, doubling over with his hands on his knees and gasping for breath when he reached them. "Sers," he said again, his voice thin and miserable.

"Take your time," Morrigan sniped.

Leliana stepped forward to offer him a water skin, and Carver realized he wasn't a young man, but a child.

Uneasy tingles spread down his spine. Whatever he'd dashed out here to tell them, it must be serious. "Tell us when you can, lad."

"Redcliffe … attack … waiting … help …."

 _Of course._ "We're headed to Redcliffe," Carver said.

"Then hurry," the child pleaded, sinking down into the dirt. "I'll be back before nightfall, but you should go fast."

"We can't just leave him here," Leliana protested.

"I'll … be fine." He still wheezed, but Carver agreed with his assessment; he just needed a rest and to get back on his feet.

"Besides," the child added. "They only come at night." With that chilling pronouncement, he lay down, seeming to have closed the discussion.

"Should we, ah … find out what he meant by all that?" Alistair asked.

"It's likely faster to go find out ourselves." Carver shrugged, then resettled his pack so the weight pulled evenly. "Let's go find out what new 'adventure' awaits."

"Oh, an adventure? What fun. We haven't have nearly enough adventure," Morrigan said, an ironic smile barely touching her lips.

"I know!" said Alistair, either missing the sarcasm, or joining in. "I hope this one's a proper adventure, the last one seemed to be mostly cleaning up."


	5. Redcliffe Village

Chapter Five

Redcliffe Village

Descending into Redcliffe felt like climbing down into a ravine. High walls of rock rose on either side of them, the narrow path allowing them to move one way and one way only. Most of the group bunched closer together, but Niamh seemed to revel in the walls pressing in; she ran a hand down one wall, and then the other, bouncing between them while the others followed behind. Near the branch of the first fork, they saw Redcliffe Castle, standing at the end of another narrow path, but the portcullis was down.

"That's odd. They don't usually lower that," Alistair said, his tone slow and thoughtful. His brows furrowed together, and Niamh offered him a supportive hand on the shoulder once more.

 _What's going on there?_ Carver wondered, reminding himself to ask later. "The boy did say there had been an attack." At least, he had said the word "attack." It was a reasonable assumption that he meant there had actually been one.

"Halloooo!" Alistair shouted. He kept shouting until they reached the portcullis, but no one answered his call. "Ho there! Gate guard!"

The other side of the gate was all stillness, like the forest after a large animal had gone by and frightened all the smaller ones … or like the inside of a crypt.

Carver shuddered. "I don't think this will help us. Let's move on into the village."

The castle had been at the top of its path, so they were in a descent again to get back to the main path. Walking with feet tilted forward, and torso thrown back, Carver still felt he was on the edge of falling every moment. He set his sights on the slow-moving blades of the windmill, reasoning it had to be built on at least semi-flat land.

He was not disappointed. The path flattened out at the mill, though he saw it continued at a steep grade beyond. Before they continued, though, he saw soldiers gathered here; they should know what was happening.

"You, there! What's going on here?" Carver barked. They turned to look at him, and one woman detached from the other soldiers to come speak.

"You want Murdoch, ser. The mayor. He'll be in the square." Instructions given, the woman turned around, back to her comrades, ignoring Carver and his own. There was nothing for it but to continue, down into the village proper, and hope this Mayor Murdoch at last would answer some damn questions.

They found the square—a town this small, it would be hard not to—and directed their questions to the man who stood giving orders to the ragged and slow-moving soldiers here.

"Are you here to help us?" he asked as Carver approached.

"We're here to see Arl Eamon, but that seems to be an issue. The portcullis is down and no one answers."

The man took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead with it before shoving it back into a pocket. "Oh, aye, castle's closed down. I'm Murdoch." He thrust his hand forward for Carver to shake. "We've been having some trouble here. I think this is about our last day if we don't get some help."

"Get to where you tell us what you need," Carver barked. Why did everything seem to be falling apart at once?

"Defense, ser." His manner had turned cold. "The past few nights, we've had demons and darkspawn rampaging through the village. We're losing defenders every night, and we don't have soldiers to push them back. We have townspeople. And a Chantry. If we have to survive another night on our own—"

"I don't know we can spare the time—"

"Of course we can," Alistair said, pushing forward. "The castle's probably closed while the village is under attack. We'll knock them out tonight, then we'll be able to do our business. Right?" He looked at Carver, his command voice more reminiscent of a puppy begging.

"Of course," Carver said, giving up. It would be better if the Wardens remaining could show a united front. "We're only six, but surely six highly trained warriors is a mite better than what you're working with now."

"Oh, indeed, ser, indeed. We lost most of Redcliffe's soldiers in the first surprise attack, them that weren't at the castle in the first place." He brought out the handkerchief, mopping again at the film of sweat that gathered, put it away once more. "Maker only knows if any of those poor sods still live," he muttered.

"Wait, what?" Carver stepped forward, but Alistair deftly stepped between them, taking over with the mayor. "So, my friend the junior Grey Warden," he said—emphasizing "junior" in case Carver missed the point—"is going to go speak to the soldiers up the hill, see what fortifications can be managed. The rest of us will look around, see what we can do, all right? We're going to save your village."

Knowing when he'd been dismissed, Carver trudged back up the hill to speak to the soldiers by the windmill. At least this place was in basically a chasm between mountains. It would be difficult to come in great numbers. They would be able to bottleneck the enemy at a few key points, and just cut through them. That was all to the good. Unless, of course, they came in from the lake ….

 _Can darkspawn swim? I've never heard of such a thing. We should find out before we rely on that._

Speaking to the soldiers gave him little. They were all exhausted, no longer thinking straight. Several of them had dropped to nap in the shade of the windmill, and their commanding officer let them. They must have earned it, or discipline was so lax as to be laughable. Carver guessed the former. From their commanding officer, he learned that most of the darkspawn tried to come in the main path, and archers had been effective, so far, at slowing them enough for the swordsmen to take the rest down. A few, however, were coming in from the lake; not as many, but enough. The main places the soldiers of Redcliffe had been making their stand was right here, near the top of the hill, with a second group in the square.

Carver nodded. "We'll let you know if there are changes to be made there. Otherwise, be ready to keep doing what you've been doing." There was something missing from that, and he tried to remember how Alistair had been handling it. "We'll drive them out for good tonight," he added. One lone soldier tried to start a cheer, but gave up after a single huzzah.

As he turned to leave, the commander cleared his throat, not yet done.

"Yes?" Carver turned back to him.

"We, uh … we have a bit of a morale problem. The men, they don't feel we're being watched after. The Maker's loving hand hasn't been sparing as many of them as they think he should. Is there anything you might be able to manage for that?"

For a moment, he could only stare, thoroughly confused as to what this man thought he could do. _Should I bless them myself? What good will that do?_ After collecting himself, however, he had an idea. "We have a Chantry—" _What? Laysister? Templar? Possibly assassin who can sing prettily as she kills you?_ "—person," he finished. "I'll send her this way to see if she can help."

"Bless you, ser. We'll be waiting right here for any change in orders."

By afternoon, everyone had done what they could. Morrigan gleefully informed him about some casks of oil that had been abandoned when some shopkeeper fled. She planned to set most of the village on fire, it seemed.

"Just try to keep it to enemies and not the people and buildings we're trying to save?" Carver pleaded.

Morrigan sniffed haughtily. "We'll see."

Somehow, Leliana placated the soldiers waiting at the top of the hill, though he had no idea how. Sten … "persuaded" the blacksmith to work faster on repairing much-needed weapons, though he was likewise quiet on what he'd done. By the time the group assembled for an early dinner, Niamh and Alistair arrived with battle plans drawn up, though Niamh's were decorated with sketches of wildlife, and Alistair's consisted of killing the enemies as fast as they could. "What did you have, Carver?"

Everyone turned to him. Carver chewed slowly, wishing they would stop asking him that. "They already have an idea of where the darkspawn hit, and have defended against them for several nights. Half our group go to the top of the hill to keep the biggest portion out of the village, and the other half stays here to kill the ones coming from the lake. I suggest Leliana and Niamh above. They're both better than average archers, and can make a huge difference. Sten for the third, I think; swing a big sword and don't let the stragglers by. You, me, and Morrigan down here. Morrigan has some … traps set up she'll need to trigger at the right times."

Morrigan laughed to herself, her eyes alight as though already reflecting the flames she planned to set.

Nodding, Alistair took another bite of food, speaking around it. "Sounds good to me. After that, do you think they'll let us in Redcliffe keep? What if they don't?"

"Then we try to capture an ogre tonight and take their portcullis away from them," Carver snapped. How was he supposed to know what to do? "You made a big point about being senior warden, you figure it out."

Alistair opened his mouth to respond, but a horn called before he could. "Damn, here already?"

Leliana and Niamh dropped their food, jumping to their feet, and were gone a moment later, jogging up to their positions. Sten followed, hurrying but not rushed.

"It's not even sundown yet," Morrigan observed. "Fire won't look nearly as pretty in the daytime."

Carver's heart thudded, the dizziness he felt after the shriek bite returning; that, too, began to throb loudly, pain drowning out almost everything else. Darkspawn, again. Would they never be finished with them? First he'd nearly died, then his family had nearly died; what next?

 _Well, next the entire village nearly dies from your idiocy, and after that maybe all of Ferelden, except it won't be "nearly" so much as "utterly and completely destroyed," and if anyone makes it out, they can tell other countries so all of Thedas will know whose name to curse._

"Carver!" Morrigan shouted.

"What?" Carver roared back at her, glaring.

Instead of flinching, she drew back into her cold, indifferent mask. "I called you three times. Are you all right or not?"

"I … yes. I'm sorry."

"Fine. I have to see to my fire traps."

Carver sighed, letting her leave. The temper, always the temper. Perhaps if he apologized properly later, they could stay friends.

No time to worry about it now. The sun had just kissed the horizon, and he could hear, faintly from up the hill, metal striking metal. And screams, of course; always screams. He fought the urge to run up to them and help, knowing he was needed here, as well, and knowing that leaving his position would only be worse for everyone. It was hard, though.

It kept being hard until the first of the skeletons shambled out from the buildings by the lake. Then, things were simple again. Carver charged, dully thankful that he didn't have to worry again until they all lay dead before him.

§

Cheers erupted once the flow of enemies ceased. Carver collapsed, letting shaking legs fold underneath him. He grabbed a child running by, pulling him close. "You. Run to the top of the hill, find out if my people made it. A silver for the message when you return."

"Yes, ser!" the child yelled, fresh enough to sprint immediately, skipping over darkspawn corpses in his way.

Alistair came to flop onto the ground by Carver. "I take it back; the witch is helpful."

Carver barked a laugh. "Never a truer statement." In truth, her fires had likely killed more of the creatures than the rest of the soldiers combined.

A pretty woman with brown hair falling to her waist came by, handing them each a tankard. "As a thank-you," she said, smiling a slow, sensual smile at both of them.

"Okay, I've decided, I like being heroes. We should be heroes all the time," Alistair said. From there, he launched into a ramble, but Carver wasn't listening.

He drank his ale, and waited to see if they had lost anyone. Neither of the archers, surely, and Sten could take care of himself … but midway through the battle, he had seen Morrigan run into a thin alley between two houses, and a huge gout of flame shot out of it, with no sign of her.

She hasn't left because I shouted … has she? If she had, it would be the worst result his temper had ever spurred. Before now, it had caused nothing more serious than ugly words or occasionally a thrashing. He hadn't lost a friend over it before.

"Ser! Ser! Ser!"

Carver looked up, to see his messenger-child waving at him wildly, a grin covering his face.

"They're all there, ser! But there's something happening up the castle. They want you, now." The child waited, palm upturned.

Digging out a coin, Carver groaned. What else could people want? He handed the coin over, prompting the child to whoop as he rejoined the celebrations.

"Does that mean the party's over for now?" Alistair asked.

"Worse, I think. I think it means there's more fighting before we can rest."

They both dragged themselves to their feet, making their way back up to the windmill to find out what this mess at the castle was. Carver spent an extra useless glance looking for Morrigan, but she was nowhere to be found. Worry gnawed at him. Not only would she be a lost friend, but now they would have no mage to back them up if they ran into real trouble.

"About that who's-in-charge bit before …" Alistair began.

"You were right. You're the senior warden, I follow orders." Carver cursed himself. People were already mad he'd given up the mabari. How would they react when they found out he lost the witch, too?

"No, no, no. You're usually great. You have a better head for this than I do, and Niamh oftens finds herself overwhelmed. Too much open space, not enough trees. I only stepped in earlier because it looked like you were going to make the mayor foul his breeches."

Carver first snorted, then laughed full-out. He was starting to wonder if it was a kind of hysteria that made things so funny after a heated fight … or maybe it was just the idea of the mayor running around directing the village's defense, with obviously soiled breeches.

"Come on, Alistair. You do your part, too. I think it's best if we keep all three of our wardens active and working. Not fair if I get all the glory."

"Ohhh, the glory. I forgot about the glory. Never mind, then, I'm going to be in charge exactly one-third of the time."

Reaching the top of the hill, Carver put a foot wrong and stumbled, nearly falling. Morrigan was there. She hadn't left.

She saw him almost fall, Alistair helping him keep his feet, and she tilted her head in curiosity. But then she turned back to the nobles arguing, Niamh standing between them trying to get everything organized.

"It seems we still have a bit of a demon problem," Morrigan murmured when he reached her.

"A problem? For us to deal with? I'm shocked," Carver muttered back.

She favored him with a smile, and Carver felt the twisted wire in his chest ease up. She wasn't furious, then.

"So, what's going on?" he asked when there was a break in the conversation.

The nobles whirled on him, but Niamh spoke quietly, calming them again.

"Demon infestation, blood mages. We need to get in the castle. There's a secret way in, but I'm not sure we all should go. We were supposed to only get the arl's support, and now he's sick. So first we clear the demons, then we need to heal the arl. I think some of us should go ahead to the dwarves, or we'll find ourselves stuck here with no army by the time the darkspawn destroy everything."

"Warden meeting?" Carver asked.

"Warden meeting," the others agreed.

Moving a slight distance away, they conferred in low voices. Niamh was adamant that they split up; they didn't have time to spend here just to get to the arl, while the darkspawn did not wait about on allies. Carver nodded in agreement. There were six of them now, and it couldn't possibly take all six to deliver a message to the dwarves.

Only Alistair demurred, nudging a pile of dirt around with the toe of his boot.

"Well, why not?" Carver demanded, tiring of the man's deflections. Anxiety prickled through his veins, telling him he must move, move now, and do something.

"I just …." Alistair sighed, then shot a please-help-me look at Niamh, but she didn't seem moved to assist in any way. "I just think I should be here for the arl, but with demons and blood mages, you'll want Morrigan here. And I don't think either Niamh or I would split with Morrigan, and we don't want to send just one warden all the way to Orzammar. So if we separate, it's me and Niamh going, and you stay here with the witch, while the arl …."

Nimah hugged him, carefully wrapping herself around the armor. "He'll be here when we get back. We can go get our allies, then sit by his sickbed until he's well enough to be up again. You're not going to miss him, Alistair."

Confusion tugged at Carver; he knew there was something else going on here. "What exactly is the issue with—"

"Never mind," Alistair said, defeated. "I'm sure you're both right. Niamh and I should take Sten, the dwarves respect strength. Can you manage with Morrigan, Leliana, and whatever soldiers Redcliffe offers you?"

Carver thought about pressing him until he got the answer he wanted, but chose instead to drop it for now; they had more important things to do. "We can handle it. It's just storming one castle, after all. Probably overkill, three whole people."

Alistair chuckled at that, but it sounded weak, uncertain. "All right, then. Here." Digging around in his pack, he pulled the treaties out, handing two of them over to Carver, keeping only one for himself. "We'll go secure our dwarven allies, then come right back here. It's a long journey, and we may be delayed, so you hold on to these. You may want to go bring in more allies while waiting for our return."

"Good thinking," Niamh said. She kept a hand resting on him. "Oh!" she said, realization lighting her face. "This means we're actually separating for a time." She looked up at Carver. "I … I hope we all make it back here." She shook Carver's hand, then went to Leliana, hugging the poor woman tight enough to cut her breath off.

Alistair's shoulders slumped as Niamh said her good-byes.

"We'll be all right," Carver told him.

"Yeah, I know. Just …." The spirit had fled from his tone entirely, and he stared up at the castle, indecision stamped across his features.

"We will save the arl, Alistair. I swear it." _And then you're going to tell me why it's such an issue._

"Thank you, Carver." Alistar held his hand for a handclasp, then dragged Carver into a bear hug, instead. When he drew back, his face looked like Alistair's again, relaxed and unable to take anything seriously. "But you get the next simple delivery, and I get to fight through a castle of horrors, you hear me?"

Decision made, Alistair, Niamh, and Sten headed up the hill immediately; no one saw any reason to delay.

Carver braced himself for Morrigan's snide remark as they left, but she either had none, or chose to keep it to herself.

She slipped her hand into Carver's, giving it a brief squeeze. "We are capable of this challenge," she told him.

"Yes." Carver pulled himself away from watching the others depart. Now, he was the only Grey Warden here. His decisions might change the fate of all of Thedas. _Hope I don't fuck it up._

"Now, Teagan, Isidore. From the beginning. Explain the secret entrance and whatever plan you have."


	6. Demon at the Castle

_AN: Hey, if people are still reading and enjoying this, could y'all drop me a line and let me know? Need to know I'm not just flinging words out into the Void._

Chapter Six

Castle

The secret passage began under the windmill. Carver cursed the closeness of the walls, the low ceiling forcing him to walk half-crouched, the limited space which suggested he kept his weapon drawn, in case they were attacked and he didn't have room to pull it from its scabbard. Leliana had less trouble, moving in a smooth, gliding crouch, and Morrigan had turned herself into some kind of swamp-cat-creature, scrambling ahead with ease. Occasionally, she turned back, golden eyes reflecting his torch back at him.

"I don't like this," Carver muttered.

"I think we're almost through," Leliana said. It seemed to be true; the hall appeared to be lighter ahead of them, and Morrigan yowled once, a feline directive that clearly meant "hurry up."

His knees aching from the effort of walking with them bent so far, Carver found himself wishing he could transform into an animal as well. A dog, or a bear. Not solely for the benefit of moving through the dank tunnel more easily, but so he could leave, and go live in the wild without the responsibility of defeating the Blight hanging over his head. It felt like too much, especially with the other Wardens now gone.

Light grew steadily brighter, and soon Carver could make out a doorway shape in it. It darkened when Morrigan stepped into it, once more assuming her normal shape.

"You'll want to come hear this," she said, giving no more information and stepping back out of the doorway.

When Carver passed the doorway, he stood up straight, relishing the series of pops and crackling as his spine lined itself up again. "What did I want to hear?"

Morrigan jerked her chin at a cell across the hall, and Carver saw a man inside it, hands clutching the bars.

"Don't leave me," he pleaded. "Those things have been through, and next time they'll likely kill me."

Glowering, Carver brought the torch close enough to get a good look at him. A young man, dressed in mage robes, a crop of fresh bruises marking up his face. "Who are you? And what landed you in here?" _And why should I care?_ his tone added without needing to say it.

"I'm … I'm Jowan. And yes, I've made some mistakes, but I don't deserve to die like this. I could help, maybe. I know how the demon got in."

"Let me guess. You called him?" Carver asked.

"Listen to him explain," Morrigan said.

Permission given, Jowan launched into a long, sad story about how terrible it was that his plan to poison the arl had gone wrong, and now the arl's son consorted with demons because his mother hadn't wanted to send him away to be raised by mages and Templars.

Carver listened, but it felt like huge pieces of the story were missing. "You're not giving me a lot of reasons to set you free. Why did you poison him, anyway?"

"It was only supposed to be temporary! But I can help. You free me, I can help you send the demon back."

"I'm not sure we need his kind of help," Leliana said. "But you can't leave him here like this. It's cruel."

"I agree," Morrigan said, causing both Leliana and Carver to gape at her in shock. "Oh, do not look so surprised. If we cannot use him, at least let him out and send him away."

Carver hesitated, his hand on the bars. Most of his family was safely outside Fereldan now, but there was one left. And it was possible this fool knew her …. "You two move away a bit. I need to speak to him privately."

After exchanging a glance with each other, Morrigan and Leliana did as he asked, moving far enough that he knew they couldn't overhear.

"I'll set you free, Jowan."

Jowan's face eased in relief, his features smoothing out. "Oh, thank the Maker. You won't regret this—"

"If."

"If? If, what?" Uncertainty came back, tightening his face up. "You can't tease me like that, it isn't right."

"I know someone at the circle you just escaped from. Tell me if she still lives, and I'll release you."

"Of course, of course. It's a small circle, we know everyone by name. Is she a Templar, or a mage? What's her name?"

"Her name is Lena. Amell, I think. Black hair, elf-blooded." His cousin, according to his mother, but she had visited so often he thought of her as his other sister.

Jowan's face fell at her name, desperation becoming clearer in it with every word Carver added. "You … you said you'll free me if I tell you. Whether it's good or bad?"

Frustration broke, and Carver's hand shot through the bars, seizing the front of Jowan's robes and yanking him forward. "Tell me now."

"She's alive!" Jowan said, face mashed against the bars. "She … was alive when I left, anyway. She helped me escape and people weren't pleased, but I don't think they'd kill her over that."

"You escaped and left her there?" Carver reached for his sword, but Jowan wailed.

"You said you'd free me! You can't kill me now." He wriggled in Carver's grasp, but couldn't pull back at all. "Please, you promised."

Carver shoved him away from the bars, drawing his sword. Jowan cried out again, but Carver brought the sword down on the lock, breaking it off in one blow. "You're free. But go. If I find out you caused her death, I will find you."

On the floor of the cell, Jowan cowered, one arm over his head in case Carver decided to go ahead and kill him. "But … the demon …."

"We have a better mage than you already. Get out." He stomped away, brushing by Morrigan and Leliana without slowing.

"What was all that?" Morrigan asked.

"Nothing," Carver snapped. His third sister, his only _little_ sister, may or may not have been tortured to death for helping a maleficarum escape. _What could possibly be wrong?_ "Come on, we still have to find the demon-child and stop it."

§

Abominations fell to his sword, Leliana's arrows, Morrigan's magic. They fell too easily, it seemed; never more than a few at a time, and it was far too simple for them to make progress into the castle.

"We're being led," Leliana murmured, echoing Carver's thoughts.

"I thought as much. Led to the demon, do you think, or away from?" Morrigan asked.

Carver kept his silence. He wanted to go back and kill Jowan. He only had a handful of people in the world; if he'd gotten Lena killed, there would be no safe place in Thedas for the bastard to hide.

The main hall stood before them; oversized doors, ornately carved, but not locked, sat slightly opened.

"It's in there," Carver decided.

Howling laughter filled the chamber as Carver pushed through the doors. It emanated from a small boy, perhaps eight or ten years old.

"Try not to kill it," Carver muttered. "We won't make friends by killing their children, if we can help it."

"You won't kill me, Carver Hawke. You only know how to fall in battle," the child roared.

Carver felt the words as a blow, stumbling back a step. That thing could not only hear whispers, but thoughts. How could they possibly—

But then lesser demons swarmed the room, and there wasn't time to think anyway. Everything reduced to just the sweep of his sword, blocking before darting out to cut, rage demons and raised skeletons falling before him. The room filled with flame, Morrigan's magic unerringly picking out enemies, leaving the scattered humans within unsinged.

"No!" the demon-child screamed,, the sound echoing with the demon's voice overlaid on the child's. "You cannot take me!" He broke, running for a side door, as the last of his minions fell.

"Wait," Isolde called. She lay on the floor, struggling to get up "Don't hurt him, you mustn't."

Carver reached for her, helping her to her feet.

Teagan lay nearby, limping over to them. "We may have no choice," he said.

"You do, actually." Jowan stood in the doorway. Somewhere, he'd found a staff, either an unsanctioned gift from the armory, or his own that would have been locked away.

Every muscle tightening, Carver fully intended to charge at him, strike him down. He had told the man to leave, they didn't need his help. But Carver's feet refused to move, his hands would not raise his sword again. He found he could move his neck, and looked at Morrigan.

She raised a shoulder, smiling apologetically for keeping him still. "If he has another way, we should at least hear it."

Carver fought the rage of being thwarted; he knew she was right. "Then speak, maleficar. Speak quickly and I won't kill you before you're done."

Jowan spoke, words tripping over each other in his hurry to get them out fast enough. "I can send someone into the fade. A mage. You travel with a mage. The only thing is …."

"Spit it out!" Carver shouted.

"It requires blood magic," Jowan explained. I can do it, but I need to use someone's life force. It's quite an … intense spell, though. I would need all of it."

"So," Morrigan mused. "Someone else must die for the child to live."

"That's an awful choice!" Leliana cried.

"I will do it." Isolde spoke so softly, they hardly heard her.

"Isolde, no." Teagan took her arm, shaking her lightly. "What will Arl Eamon say when he wakes, and I have to explain I let his wife sacrifice herself?"

"For my child? I will do it, Teagan. You cannot prevent me."

Carver stood, letting the argument wash over him. Sacrifice one to save another. Blood magic, but for the purpose of repelling a demon.

"We do have a willing participant." Morrigan shrugged. "If she wants to die, why stop her?"

"No blood magic," Carver decided.

Isolde cried out as if wounded. "If this is the way—"

"No blood magic!" he roared. No, they would not even consider it. "There is another way. There always is, with magic. Jowan?"

"Well …." The blood mage ran a hand through his hair, thinking. "Technically, yes. It would take more mages. And lyrium. A lot of lyrium. The time it would take to gather it all …."

"We cannot wait that long," Isolde said.

"No, we can," Teagan argued. "The circle tower is close, only on the other side of the lake. If we lend you horses, you'll be there in half a day. We can wait with Connor that long."

Isolde moaned, sinking to the floor in a near faint. "If he should die …."

Carver glanced around, meaning to ask Alistair and Niamh, before remembering he was the only warden here. The decision lay on his shoulders alone. "One day," he said. "We ride hard, get the mages and lyrium, and ride back."

Morrigan seemed about to protest, but he cut her off with a gesture, instead looming over the now-cowering Jowan.

"If this does not work …. If you are gone when we return …."

"Yes, yes, I know. Hunt me down and kill me. Not to mention if you get to the tower and don't find—"

"Enough," Carver interrupted. He wasn't sure why, but it felt wrong somehow for Leliana and Morrigan to know about his family troubles. "Teagan, the horses. Morrigan, Leliana, we go now."

Horses were outfitted in a matter of minutes, and Carver and his group readied themselves to leave. The sky was dark, dawn still hours away; only a pale moon and a scattering of stars lit the night.

"Are we quite certain we have the time for this?" Morrigan asked. She perched on her horse as if it were a dangerous thing instead of a helpful beast of burden.

"We have to go to the tower with the treaty, whatever we decide about Connor. We may as well go now and try to save the child."

"As you like, then." She looked at her horse in disgust, but did not protest the necessity of it.

Leliana seemed much more amenable to the idea. She sat astride her animal, petting its mane while she waited.

Carver listened while Tegan explained the roads, impatient to be going. The tower lay in the lake, close to the other side. All they needed to do was ride around the lake until they reached the dock, then take a boat to it. Were the lake not so wide, they could take a boat from here; as it was, the horses would prove the fastest route.

"And if you find yourself in farm country …" Teagan continued.

"We've got it," Carver snapped, unable to listen to any more. "We will be back shortly." He spurred his horse, not waiting to see if Leliana and Morrigan followed. The need to be away, to move before it was too late, gnawed at him, reminding him of the demon's words. He had to know more than how to fall in battle.

At the top of the cliffs exiting Redcliffe, he paused long enough to be sure they were still with him. A few paces behind, Morrigan sat astride her black charger, still looking as though she mistrusted it. A little farther on, Leliana rode her long-legged roan, the three spare horses on halter-ropes behind her.

"On, then," he told himself, nudging the horse from an easy trot into a canter. He would have to rest it, but he felt too keenly the need to go fast … and the worry that he had made the wrong decision.

§

At sunrise, Carver called a halt so they could water the horses. Leliana dug into the bag of food Teagan had pressed on them, and she and Carver sat down to eat hard cheese and soft bread.

Morrigan chose to stand. "I do not think my backside shall ever be quite the same again."

Leliana laughed, her mouth full. "You're lucky Alistair cannot hear you say that. Imagine what he would reply."

"I would rather not," Morrigan said, closing the subject.

Carver, rather than relaxing into the break, sat tense and ready to leap up again. Five minutes, he told himself. Five minutes, and they would be on their way. They had to be nearly there. They would arrive without incident, collect their mages and return. Surely, they could face no more trouble on such a simple errand.

A rustling in the copse of trees ahead was his first indication of how wrong he was, and his stomach sank as he realized.

"Pack up," he said shortly. "Rest is over."

"What? Why?" Leliana asked, but tucked her food away and drew her bow without waiting for an answer.

"I am not getting back on that thing yet, so if that is your plan—"

"Help, sers, Grey Warden, please," came the cry from the forest.

Carver waited, checking to be sure Leliana had an arrow at the ready. The woman crying for help saw them once she cleared the tree-line, changing course to run straight towards them.

"Please, sers, are you the Grey Wardens?" she asked. Tears streamed down her face, leaving clean tracks through the dirt. Her clothes were torn, and she did not run so much as lurch toward them, favoring one leg.

"I'm a Grey Warden," Carver said. "What is it?"

"Just you …?" Confusion flitted over her features, then she smoothed it away. "They said more, but come, you must come. My husband, he needs help. We were attacked, they're gone now, but the wagon's overturned. Please, come help me. Just on the other side of the trees."

They would never get the horses through the dense undergrowth; he checked to make sure they were still tied securely, then nodded to Morrigan and Leliana. "Lead the way, madam. We'll help your husband."

The woman cried in relief, hobbling back the way she'd come.

Something felt wrong, and Carver tried to puzzle it out, though the woman never stopped talking. He wondered why they needed a Grey Warden specifically, then she asked him a question about Ostagar, distracting him. He realized there was no one who should have been able to tell her there were Wardens about, and then she started wailing again about her poor husband, trapped beneath their cart.

When they reached the clearing on the other side of the woods—wagon visible, but no one trapped underneath—Carver expected the trap, though he had not yet figured out the details. The woman turned first, swinging a dagger around just as an arrow missed his face by inches. Unsurprised, Carver reacted quickly, drawing his sword as he stepped back. He cut the woman in half as she brought the knife round for a second attempt, and behind her, the world exploded in flame. Screams erupted as Morrigan burned through the would-be attackers, and Leliana only had to put arrows into the living human torches that had not died instantly. It was over in a matter of minutes.

"That was quick. Did we miss anyone?" Carver asked.

A groan from behind the wagon—overturned a second time when Morrigan's flames hit—answered his question. They picked their way through the charred bodies to find an elf, legs pinned underneath the cart, head bleeding as he moaned.

"Be ready," Carver said, waiting for Leliana to nock an arrow. Morrigan still held balls of flames in her hands, able to unleash them at any moment. Carver crouched down, slapping the elf lightly to bring him out of his half-daze.

"That will not be necessary," the elf said. "I am Zevran Arainai, I was sent here to kill you, and I will answer every question you have."

"Let's start with who sent you," Carver barked.

"Yes. Yes, of course. Could we … the wagon …?" Zevran asked.

"Maybe." Carver could see it pressed hard against the elf's thighs; he would not be springing another trap any time soon. "Depends on how well you can answer me."

"Oh, that I can do very well. I was—well, not me personally, but the Crows—were hired by a fellow called Loghain. Taciturn man. Not unlike yoursel—ah, but never mind. At any rate, he wished for the Grey Wardens who survived Ostagar to cease surviving immediately. And on that point, I would like to explain that since I have failed, the Crows now consider me a loose end to be tied up, and returning to Loghain, even with your head, would serve me not at all without the other two. I believe you are not all they, since I was told there were two male Wardens and only one female. And no mages at all," he griped.

"How terribly disappointed you must be," Morrigan deadpanned.

"I am a little burned over the mistake. Burned? No?" He grinned, but found no one willing to share his joke. "No, then. But, in light of my impending death, I have a proposition for you."

"A proposition," Carver repeated, his voice flat.

"Not that kind of proposition. Unless you were interested …? No? No one? All right, then, a wholly different proposition. Since my life is forfeit any other direction, let me serve you instead. I am quite an accomplished fighter, when I do not run into unexpected mages."

"Is that all?" Carver asked. He rose to his feet, placing the tip of his sword to the elf's throat. "You'll just kill me the moment I drop my guard."

"Wait, wait," Zevran cried. "I swear to you—on my life—I will not. It will do me no good, I've explained. If I go back to the Crows, or try to ingratiate myself to Loghain, I am dead already, for having failed the first time around. My only chance at life is if you allow it. So, killing you would not be in my interests at this time."

"And you think I need a failed assassin?" Carver stood firm, but he could feel Leliana weakening; the bow started to ease away from being pointed directly at the elf's face until the arrow pointed at only ground.

"You accept me," she said quietly. "I am much the same."

"This isn't about you, Leliana."

"He is not lying about the Crows, Carver. He can't go back, not now." Her blue eyes pleaded with him.

 _Why do I feel like everyone has some dark secret they keep dancing around? Alistair has some history with the Arl, now Leliana wants the assassin to live and looks haunted about something else …._ "Morrigan?" he asked. Morrigan would help. There was no chance she would argue to keep him alive.

She shrugged. "I care not, one way or the other. But if you allow him to live, I would advise you to be cautious with your food from now on."

Zevran laughed. "This is good advice for everyone. I'm a fair cook, as it happens … I would eat first, of course."

Sighing, Carver let the point of his sword drop to the dirt. The man had tried to kill them all … but now he lay helpless, unarmed, and no one else seemed to think they should kill him. It wasn't the same as killing a skeleton, or even a person during a battle. It felt more akin to murder.

"If I keep you," Carver warned, "you get to play bait any time we need it. We need a distraction, that's you. We need someone to walk ahead and check for traps, that's you."

"This is acceptable." Zevran sighed, relief apparent in his face. "I can detect traps, I can distract well. Anything you need, that increases my chances of living. I quite like living, and would prefer to keep doing it awhile yet."

Leliana leaned close, murmuring to Carver. "Thank you. I cannot explain what this means to me, not now, but—"

"Leliana."

She straightened at the command in his voice. "Y-yes?"

"You will be responsible for him," Carver ordered. "You will be ready to shoot him at all times. You will be sure he doesn't get up in the night to slaughter us while we sleep. You will be to blame if he finds a way to kill me."

Leliana's mouth dropped open. "I … yes, all right." She dropped to one knee by Zevran. "I was an Orlesian bard. You will not cross me," she warned.

Zevran placed a hand over his heart, oozing sincerity. "I would not dream of such a thing, my lady. Now, please … the wagon?"

Working together, Leliana and Carver lifted the side off it, tilting enough so that he could wriggle out.

Moving his legs carefully, Zevran hissed, feeling for unseen injuries. "I think I shall be all right."

"We were all deeply concerned," Carver said. "Leliana, I meant it. If he bolts, you bring him down."

"Yes, ser," she said. She still seemed distracted by something else ….

 _He can't go back,_ she'd said. Carver wondered. Now, they'd lost who knew how much time, because Leliana was seeing some echo of herself in the assassin, and the damn horses better not have disappeared by the time they got back.

"Let's go," Carver said. "We're still a couple hours away, and we have business to attend to."

"Business?" Zevran asked. "I don't suppose I could inquire what sort of—" Three glares turned on him, and his mouth snapped shut. "No, you're right. I'll find out later. I can be content."


	7. Circle Tower

Chapter Seven

Circle Tower

The boat rocked steadily, little waves lapping at its sides, as Carver struggled to pull the heavy oars enough to move them across the lake. You didn't realize how heavy people were until you tried to drag them across a lake.

By yourself.

"Is this really the best way to go about this?" Morrigan asked yet again. "They tend not to like uncollared mages at these places." One hand rubbed at her throat, as if a literal collar might appear any moment.

"Just tell them … you're not a mage … but a witch," Carver suggested between gasps for breath. They had commandeered the boat, but apparently the boatman was not part of the deal.

In response she gave him a death glare, but it seemed as though finally, mercifully, she would stop complaining.

"I never liked these places," Leliana said. "They creep me out. Everybody locked up in such a small space …."

The Circle Tower surged forward out of the mist, a stone edifice looming over them like a waiting dragon.

 _Somewhere inside is cousin Lena, my youngest sister. Void take the templars if they've killed her already._

"Whoa … maybe it isn't that small." Leliana shook her head. "But will the mages help us, do you think?"

"They … have to … treaties …." Muscles aching, Carver glowered at the others. "You know … any … one of you … could help … row."

"Different calluses will ruin my archery!" Leliana protested.

"Magic hands, exempt." Morrigan shrugged, feigning helplessness.

"You still do not trust me, I am afraid. What if I club you with the oar in the middle of the lake?" Zevran winked at Leliana when he said it.

Carver still didn't understand why he required so much winking … was everything supposed to be a subtle come-on, or was his attitude supposed to hide that it wasn't? He grunted when the boat hit the bank, grateful to be done. With this part, at least. They sat for a moment, the underside of the boat grinding on the rock as mild waves nudged it against the shore.

Leliana, Zevran, and Morrigan shot questioning glances at each other but Leliana was the first to speak. "Were you going to jump out and pull the boat ashore?"

"Full armor. I'm exempt," Carver deadpanned. Chuckling, Zevran got out to pull the boat in, offering his hand to first Leliana and then Morrigan.

"I am more than capable of getting out of a boat unassisted, elf," Morrigan snapped.

"My deepest apologies. I did not know you found civility to be so offensive."

 _Maker's breath, he's as bad as Alistair._ "All right, settle down. We go inside, present our papers to … um, the head Templar, probably, and the head mage—"

"First enchanter," Leliana supplied.

"Thank you. How very helpful." Carver took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He'd promised, no more surly behavior. "First enchanter and head templar, then, and they will assign a number of mages to support our cause, as well as sending a handful back with us to save the boy. Morrigan, try not to be too obviously an apostate."

"I could wait outside, if you prefer," she said waspishly.

Carver continued without acknowledging her. "Leliana and Zevran, try not to be so obviously …." He waved a hand, trying to come up with the word that would get the point across with being rude. "You," he finally finished, settling for clarity alone.

Zevran drew himself up to his full—though short—height. "I think I am offended. Are we offended?" he asked Leliana.

"Enough, please. We have important work to do, and we don't want a delay while they check whether we're legitimate, because a Grey Warden happened to show up with a witch of the wilds and two assassins."

"You're right. We're sorry." Leliana even managed to look contrite, though Zevran's attempt was more comical than apologetic, and Morrigan made no attempt at all.

A hellish scream burst from the top of the tower, followed by lightning arcing across the skies behind the tower. Thunder rolled heavily, a portent of doom with such a clear sky, then abrupt silence. The four of them crouched, each with a hand on their weapon.

 _What now?! Can nothing go right?_

"I think," Morrigan said slowly, "that whether we look the part is not going to be our greatest concern."

"I'll take that bet," Zevran said, grinning. "But then, I've always been an optimist. Shall we go inside and see who—or what—it is we have to kill?"

Carver shook his head, and continued on. Inside the tower, confusion reigned. He saw no mages in the entryway, but was accosted instantly by a Templar.

"Did you bring it? Did you bring the Rite of Annulment?" the Templar demanded.

"Rite of—" Leliana shook Carver's arm. "They're going to kill all our mages!"

"What? No, you're not doing that." Carver ignored the confusion, not only the Templars running around like headless chickens, but everyone else wondering why they would do such a thing to every mage in the tower. There was no justification for that, and there was no way he was letting them kill Lena, regardless of the situation. _Besides, Miranda would skin me alive._

"We have no choice," the Templar snapped. The disgust in his tone made it clear what he thought of anyone feeling sympathy for these mages. "We are overrun by abominations. I am the commander here, it was my decision."

Carver looked around, still seeing not a single mage. "Are you telling me every single mage in this tower has consorted with demons and become an abomination?"

"Of course not. Most of them wouldn't dare; they know better. But the ones who didn't have been sealed up with them for days. There won't be any left by now."

"You sealed them up? How could you do such a thing?" Leliana cried.

Carver's world narrowed to a pulsing, black void. They had sealed Lena up in the tower? With abominations?

"Simple," Morrigan was saying. "His goal was to stop the abominations, and he did not consider any other options."

"Thank you for your defense, miss, but—" The Knight-Commander's eyes widened at the staff on her back, and he changed his mind mid-sentence. "You had better not be an apostate!"

Several nearby Templars closed in; Morrigan took a half a step back, bracing herself.

"She's with me," Carver roared. "The Grey Warden. Who has come with a treaty—" He brandished the paperwork, daring any of them to contradict him. "—to recruit more mages. We have the right to do so."

"Knight-Commander Greagoir?" The overeager templars held their weapons low, but readied. "Is he right?"

"Let me see." Greagoir held out his hand, and Carver let him have the papers. Skimming, Greagoir shook his head. "They look legitimate, but we haven't any mages to give you. I'll let slide on that one for today," he said, indicating Morrigan, "but I'm afraid any left at this tower are either abominations, or dead."

"You think them awfully weak for people you decided must be locked away. If they are so little danger, incapable of defense, why lock them away at all?" Morrigan asked.

Greagoir ignored her, handing the papers back to Carver. "We can offer you Templars, once this situation is settled. We shall have little to do once this tower is emptied. But we cannot help before then. We understand all must stand against the Blight, but if we don't stand against these abominations, they will flood out of the tower and do just as much damage."

"Not good enough." Carver shook his head. "We also need the mages to destroy a demon in Redcliffe. If there's any chance there are some left, we're going after them." Not to mention, he had to look for Lena.

"There is no chance," Greagoir insisted.

"The blood mage did have another idea," Morrigan murmured.

Carver shot her a look. "We will not kill Lady Isolde if there is another option." He pulled Morrigan to the side. "I will need your help with this. Do you stand with me, or not?"

Her eyes widened. "Of course, I stand with you! I am only pointing out there are many options. If this is your decision, then let us storm the tower." She crossed her arms, clearly miffed.

"I agree. It seems a waste to declare them lost and then kill them, if there might be a chance." Zevran shrugged. "Besides, I have never killed an abomination before. I'm sure it would impress all sorts of people at the brothels."

"I'm glad we're decided," Leliana said. "I didn't want to say anything before, but your cousin is in the tower. But she's alive, I can feel it."

Carver froze, and Morrigan and Zevran looked stunned, mouths hung open.

"Did you just say—"

"How," Carver growled, "do you know that?" Rage flooded through him. How _dare_ she?

Leliana stammered, a flush rising on her cheeks. "W-well, I was in Lothering for quite a while, and your sister was a good Andrastian, she—"

"Shut. Up. Did you not notice I wasn't talking about them constantly after Lothering?" He felt as though someone had turned out all his smallclothes, showing them to everyone.

"I … I'm sorry, Carver."

Furious, Carver strode back to Greagoir and threw diplomacy out the window. "Templar, you will allow me and my soldiers to pass, or you are openly declaring yourself an enemy of the Grey Wardens."

Greagoir stammered a moment, but seemed to realize that no one could declare against the wardens … not unless he wanted every hand turned against him. "Fine! But we're locking you in. We cannot risk letting the abominations loose."

"Ah, I see," Zevran said. "He locks us in, and then the Rite of Annulment proceeds as planned, and we are all killed with no blame to go to him."

"We are clearing this tower," Carver growled. "We will save any remaining mages. And you will open the doors to them, and be grateful you didn't kill innocent mages that you are responsible for." _Like Lena, who aside from multiple, frequent escapes, never did anything wrong._

"Warden … I don't want to kill the mages. You understand that, don't you? But we have no way to determine whether there are abominations within them, waiting to be released. If you can come back with First Enchanter Irving, I can accept his word. But otherwise—"

"Then that's who we'll return with." Carver marched over to the sealed doors, furious and ready to rip them off the hinges if they weren't opened fast enough. Fortunately, Greagoir gave the order, and they swung open, allowing Carver passage. Morrigan, Leliana, and Zevran followed; the moment they were through, the doors slammed shut again.

"Do you truly believe the First Enchanter is alive?" Morrigan asked.

Carver shook his head. "I don't know. But if he's not, the tower is probably lost anyway, and we'll have to do a bunch of killing without saving anyone."

"He will still be alive. I can feel it," Leliana said.

Swallowing hard, Carver fought the urge to snap at her to shut her mouth. Spreading his family business for everyone to know.

"Well, we may as well get moving. The longer we delay, the worse our chances become," Zevran said.

Carver stepped into the hall, glancing into the first room. Beds lay overturned, clothes and bedding rent and flung to all corners of the room. A bedchamber, but no longer fit to sleep in. "Our chances seem thin enough as it is." Cousin Lena was somewhere in the tower. Still alive, please Maker. He only had a handful of people in the world, and the thought of the cousin they'd abandoned to the tower dying just days before they got here … that was unconscionable.

Most of the rooms on the ground level were empty. A few abominations and demons appeared, but were quickly dispatched. Despite his misgivings about the elf, Carver had to admit Zevran was quite good … when he wasn't set upon by unexpected mages, Carver remembered.

"Zevran?" Carver asked.

"Yes, ser?" Zevran turned, holding his daggers low and at the ready.

"They won't be unexpected, right? You understand we may run into mages. You can handle them, right?"

"Yes, yes," Zevran snapped.

Leliana let loose a shrill giggle, then apologized, covering her mouth. "Sorry, sorry. I'm nervous."

They reached an open great hall, stairs on the far end leading up, and to the side a set of doors half set into the floor.

"A basement," Morrigan said. "Many magical items are … safer if kept below ground. And sealed. Perhaps guarded, depending on what they have." She shrugged. "Do we explore there first, or move up toward the mages?"

Carver was about to answer, when a thump jarred the door in its frame.

"Well," Zevran said, "you ask a question …."

"Quiet," Carver snapped.

The door thumped again, bowing outward as blue light played about the doorframe. He drew his weapon, nodding to Morrigan, who conjured flames and waited, likewise at the ready. It might be abominations, he thought, but before he could say, the doors gave a final, huge crash, and two blurred forms came tumbling out.

"Wait," Carver shouted, holding up a hand to his companions.

"Ohhhh, that hurt," one shape moaned. She got up, pushing a tangled mess of black hair away from her face and displaying half-length elven ears. Lighting crackled at her hands before she'd fully regained her feet.

"Lena, wait!" Carver yelled, flinching.

Everyone froze a moment, then Lena peered at him through hair that had fallen back into her eyes. "Carver?" she asked.

"Thank the Maker." Carver sheathed his sword, rushing over to her to drag her into a tight embrace. "I'd been worried. Are you all right?"

"Oh, you know." She pulled her hair out of her face again and he could see fresh bruises decorating her face. "Spent a little stint in the dungeon, no big deal. What's going on?" She turned to help her companion to his feet, a blond mage with stubble and matching bruises, though his appeared to be older and in multiple layers. "This is Anders."

"Okay, hello." Carver ran a hand through his hair. Safe. She was safe. "The tower is full of abominations. Someone messed up pretty bad."

Lena nodded. "We figured that much. The abominations were who let us out of the dungeon."

"Well, not on purpose," Anders added. "I think they had different intentions."

"True enough. But if it's the whole tower, good. We can escape in the confusion." Lena grinned.

"That … might not be advisable," Morrigan said.

Carver's shoulders sank. "Lena, you haven't made an escape stick before, and now there's a Blight on. You always pick the worst times."

"Hmm." Lena pursed her lips, twisting them to one side, then the other.

Anders nudged her shoulder. "Authorities in Denerim should be pretty busy. No time to chase after apostates while chasing darkspawn."

"Good point." Lena nodded, convinced. "We'll still be going. It was good to see you, though. I think I might stop by Lothering, pay a visit …." She trailed off as Carver's face fell. "What, what is it?"

"Lena, Lothering is gone."

Lena clutched at her chest. "Bethany—"

"Is all right, she made it out."

Anger flashed, and she punched him with a stone-reinforced fist. "Well, say that first next time! No need to scare people. We'll just stick to the plan then, yeah?"

"Sounds good to me," Anders agreed.

"Well, that's it, then. If we meet again, I promise I'll tell you the whole story. Quite a lot has happened since my last visit." Color flushed high on her cheeks; she looked to be starting on an adventure, rather than stepping out into a Blight-infested world. She punched Carver's arm, without the stone fist this time, then grabbed Anders's hand and jogged past their party, turning back only long enough to wave, still grinning as if the whole world weren't falling apart at the seams. "Vivat Hawke, brother!"

"Vivat Hawke," Carver murmured in reply. Had she picked that up last year, after he had gone away to the army? She truly was more sister than cousin, then. She had always seemed so.

"Well, she's … interesting," Morrigan said.

"Nobody says anything," Carver snapped.

Leliana and Zevran, who had stayed quiet through the whole thing, both shrugged; _not us, boss,_ they seemed to say, _we're not even slightly curious._

"If they came from below, that level should be cleared enough. We head upstairs." So decided, Carver marched forward, trusting the others would follow. Lena was alive, that was something. She was headed to Denerim for some reason, and that sounded inadvisable, but at least she wouldn't be caught off guard by the darkspawn roaming the countryside. Maker willing, she would be okay. Two good mages should be able to fight their way through much.

Leliana leaned over to Zevran, speaking in an exaggerated whisper. "Why do you think he didn't ask them to join us?"

Zevran respond with the same playful tone. "I am not sure, but it's like a play, isn't it? Is she his cousin? Is she his sister? I wonder when she'll be back …."

"You could both mind your business," Morrigan said, and Carver shot her a grateful look. He had no desire to talk about his strange family situation.

Upstairs, fewer and fewer abominations came to meet them. It made the group anxious, as each fidgeted with their weapons, expecting the worst at any moment. They found another stairway leading up without incident, but Morrigan peered into the room just before it.

"This looks like a first-enchanter's quarters," she observed.

Carver wondered how bad the next level of the tower was apt to be. "Think he has any useful equipment?"

A locked wardrobe and desk yielded several interesting finds, enchanted gear and some lyrium potions that Morrigan slipped into her pack. One locked chest proved more intractable. Leliana and Zevran both prodded at it, but it resisted their attempts to open it.

"There has to be something good in there." Leliana swore in Orlesian under her breath.

"'Tis magically sealed, idiots." Morrigan pushed them out of the way, settling herself in front of the chest. Her eyes half-closed as she concentrated, sending out little magical feelers. "I have the lock. I'm not sure exactly how to go about undoing it. It could take some time—"

She jumped back as Carver's sword came crashing down, putting a huge gash in the chest's lid. "You might have warned me!" she shouted.

Ignoring that, Carver reached inside the chest, feeling around. "Just a book," he said, working it through the hole he'd made. "I don't—"

Morrigan gasped, all the color draining from her face.

"Are you al right? What is it?" Carver rushed to her, one hand on her arm in case she decided to faint.

"That's … that's my mother's grimoire. I've been looking for it for years." Her face stricken, she seemed to be miles away.

"Oh?" Carver looked at the book in his hand, a small, leatherbound volume with a leafless tree embossed on the cover, seemingly innocuous but somehow unsettling. "Here, then," he said, thrusting it at her.

Morrigan almost dropped it, not expecting it to suddenly be in her grasp. "You're … you're just giving it to me?"

"Why not? I can't use it, and you're been trying to find it." Carver didn't understand quite what she was asking. Why not give her the damn thing? What was he going to do, use it for kindling?

A scream from the floor above reminded them they had things to do. Morrigan shoved the book into her bag, hurrying after the others as Carver led them into the next room. Stairs waited on the far side, but pressed up against them, close to the wall, a magical bubble held an imprisoned Templar.

"No no no," he moaned, rocking back and forth with his head clutched in his hands. "You can't."

"Are you all right?" Leliana asked, placing a hand on the surface of the barrier. It flared briefly, then settled back into its previous blue haze.

"No, it's her. It's her. She …." He looked up, his eyes focusing on them. His face was long and haggard; however long he'd been here, he'd apparently been through something horrible. "You're not … you have to kill them. All of them." He scrambled to his feet, wincing, and stood hunched close to the barrier.

"I would wager not all right," Morrigan sniped.

Leliana pull a face, sighing at her.

"No, it doesn't matter. Come," Carver decided. "We have no time for this, and we cannot help him, at any rate." After he said it, he wondered if Morrigan might be able to bring down the barrier … but then, they'd have a murderous Templar to deal with. No, better to leave him. They could check on him afterward.

Turning his back on the Templar, he led his group up the stairs. Once they cleared the room, a chilling howl echoed behind them. _Maybe we should have helped,_ Carver thought again. But he looked to his people; each was ready to do battle, weapons held at the ready, steel in their eyes and hearts. Better to continue.

Instead, they found themselves getting sleepy. By the end of the next hall, no one could keep their eyes fully open.

"What's hap … pening?" Leliana asked, interrupting herself with a huge yawn.

Zevran grumbled, already half asleep. "Whatever it is, it can wait until morning, surely."

"Wait … we cannot … give in," Morrigan said, but her warning came too late, as the other three dropped to the floor, gentle snores emanating from both rogues.

Carver fought a little harder, but not hard enough. He stayed awake long enough to see the demon approaching, filling his entire vision as his eyes slipped shut, rendering him helpless.

§

"Carver, come on!" Bethany, skinny and knock-kneed, jumped on his bed, yelling and shrieking. "Get up, get up, get up." Was she really so young? Carver thought he remembered ….

But a bolt of pain ripped through his head, taking that thought with it when it faded, and Carver got out of bed. "What's … going on?"

"We're nine today! Mother made two cakes, so we don't have to share. And Miri says she has presents, good ones. Lena brought special candies from the tower, and Daddy's back from his long vacation!"

Carver couldn't stop the grin, the lightness in his heart at the thought of everyone being together, with extra cake and good presents, but … but wasn't father dea—

He folded forward, hands cradling his skull, which felt as though it wanted to burst.

"You mustn't think like that, Carv. Today is a good day. Now, come on." She seized his hand, dragging him from the bed into the kitchen, where Mother and Father, Miranda and Lena, already sat around the table. As promised, two cakes, both oversized and taking over the table. A pile of presents, with a blanket thrown over all of it to hide them until it was time to see.

Lena hopped out of her chair, almost the same age as the twins, and gave Carver a big hug. "You'll never guess! The Templars, they said I was so good, I can just stay here, now. And it's my birthday in a few months, and we get to do all this again, Aunt Leandra said."

"That's right," Mother agreed. "One big, happy family." She pulled Carver close, kissing him on the forehead before nudging him towards his chair.

 _This isn't right._ He looked at Father, sitting across from him, big and

bearded and looking like a stranger. Father hadn't been here, he'd been with—

Pain sizzled, but he fought it, needing to understand. Father hadn't been here for years, and as a mage, he couldn't just—

Carver moaned, unable to stave off the sickening pulses of agony.

"Stop being difficult, Carver. You know we all love you. Now, here. I had this made for you special." He reached under the blanket to the pile of presents, drawing out a sword. "I wanted you to know how proud I am to have a warrior in the family. Miranda does her own thing, and Bethany was made like me, but a warrior … you have a special calling, Carver. You are my pride, my son."

Glaring at the sword, Carver shoved it away. He expected it to bite into his hands, but there was no sharpness to its edge. "This isn't real!" he shouted.

Father's face changed, lengthening and running like melted wax. "How dare you?" he thundered, and his voice was no longer Father's, either.

Carver pushed back from the table, but Bethany grabbed one arm, Lena the other. "Carver, no! Don't leave us. We love you and we need you to stay. We need to be a family."

Resolve weakening, Carver found he couldn't fight. The anger, the mistrust … they slipped away from him as his sister and almost-sister led him back to the table.

"Now eat your cake, darling." Leandra offered him a plate overflowing with a huge slice of chocolate cake, the icing all done in colors and piled on thick.

"But … no …." He couldn't remember why he was protesting. New sword, huge cake, the whole family together, and no templars coming to drag Lena away.

Father's face had returned to normal, except for the beaming expression of pride on it. "I used to know a fair bit of swordplay, too. After cake and the rest of the presents, we'll go outside and I'll start teaching some some of the fancier maneuvers. You're going to make me so proud, son."

"But …"

"Well, this certainly explains a bit."

Carver turned at the new voice, seeing a dark-haired adult carrying a gnarled mage's staff. For a moment he couldn't remember her name, then it floated forward out of the fog.

"Morrigan?" he asked. He still couldn't remember why he should know her. All his friends were children, like him.

"That's because you don't know her," his mother snapped in disapproval. Now she truly looked like Mother; her mouth turned down, face pinched, thoroughly displeased that the world dared to exists in a way that she didn't care for. That was much more like the Mother he knew.

"Carver." Morrigan waited until she had his attention. "We can go slowly and dismantle this piece by piece, or you can acknowledge that this isn't real, and we can move straight to getting you out of here."

Looking at his supposed family, Carver shook his head. "This isn't really them."

"Good lad." Morrigan nodded in approval. "Then, pick up your sword and help me strike them down."

As Carver wrapped his hands around the hilt of his new sword, Bethany and Lena began to weep, arms around each other. Miranda pleaded with him, one hand on his arm. "You can't, Carv. If you do that, you have to leave us, forever. You'll never see us again."

 _Never?_ His heart seized once in panic, then his eyes narrowed. "Miranda never asked anything nicely in her life," he told the imposter, shoving his sword forward into its belly. It howled in Miranda's voice, but when it looked up, it no longer looked like her, its eyes flat and yellow and face hoary and rough.

Now all of them began to change, faces running like tallow, until they were monster creatures. It made them much easier to fight against; he didn't know if he could strike down the false Bethany or false Lena if they still looked like them. Carver swung his half-sized sword for all he was worth, cutting into them again and again. They fell one by one to his blade and Morrigan's magic.

The last one left was the one pretending to be Bethany. It pleaded, Bethany's sweet voice coming from a hairy, lumpen face with crooked fangs, begging him to spare her. "We can be twins again," it promised. "Never be separated, run around and have adventures all day, Carver, please."

Trembling, he brought the sword down, killing the thing that dared to lie to him in such a personal way.

"Well done." Morrigan placed a hand on his shoulder, but he whirled away, tears streaming down his face.

"And how do I know you're not another one, huh? Make me trust you and then trap me here, wherever this is?" He swiped one arm at his eyes, trying to keep the sword up between them.

"Because you are not trapped any longer," she said.

"I am. I'm always trapped," he argued, but he saw immediately it wasn't true. Already he was fading, disappearing into an insubstantial mist. He saw the sadness in Morrigan's eyes, but his thoughts were only of relief.

 _It's over, thank the Maker, it's over. So this is dying? It seems so much better than I was led to believe._

§

He found himself—still alive, which came as a disappointment—lying on a stonework floor, surrounded by bodies. Startled, he sat up, and looking carefully he saw the two nearest bodies still breathed. Across from him, Morrigan sat with her legs crossed, watching him.

"I'm fine," Carver said.

"I am sorry," Morrigan replied.

He dropped his gaze, unable to look at her as the flush rose up his face. She had seen. Everything. "Let's just get this over with."

They shook the other two awake, Morrigan having to explain that no, the fantasies were part of the Fade, but yes, she had really been there to help them escape.

"The demon!" Leliana remembered.

"Lies yonder, dead by … my hand." She hesitated, but then shook her head and continued, shrugging. "I had to do something while everyone else slept on. We are not finished yet. We still have the mage who brought them, and Carver promised to deliver one First-Enchanter." She stepped around a litter of corpses, reaching into the pockets of one and pulling some kind of papers out of them. "These are important," she said, explaining no further.

Carver was willing enough to accept her at her word. Shame roiled through him, all sharp edges and spear tips. He squirmed, wondering how much of it she'd actually seen. Surely it had just been for him, and she'd seen him arguing with shadows? Surely, she didn't know how needy and desperate for family he was. He would never survive the humiliation.


	8. Demon in the Tower, Demon in the Child

Chapter Eight

Demon in the Tower, Demon in the Child

At the top of the tower, they found their mages. They lay around the edges of the room in a circle, either dead, or if the Maker were kind, merely unconscious.

In the center rose a monstrosity, formerly a mage, but now a writhing mass of flesh and despair. "You are too late," it roared.

Carver's heart sank, dread filling the empty hole it left behind, until Morrigan took charge.

"Kill that," Morrigan said. "I have an edge, here." She drew out the papers, reading from them as magic eddies swirled around her and the abominations howled.

Trusting that she had control of her situation, Carver flung himself at the apparent leader of the monstrosities. He cut in toward it, thanking the Maker the huge thing was not faster than it was. Sweat poured down him as he hacked and blocked, praying it fell quickly. Around him, the sleeping mages—he hoped—lay silent. Occasionally one would rise, buoyed on a wave of magical force, then would drop abruptly when Morrigan shouted something, guttural sounds he knew not the meaning of.

Each time, the abomination would turn on her, furious, and Carver had to find energy for a flurry of blows to drive it back. One by one, the mages wakened, but thwarted from what it was trying to do, the monster shrieked at losing each one. Each one joined the battle, adding their magic to help bring down the abomination. Before long, fireballs and lightning filled the air, hitting it again and again. It stumbled back, weakened, and Carver pressed forward, slicing into it again and again. His sword got heavier and heavier as he kept it up, praying for something to change before he could no longer lift it.

Behind him, Morrigan shouted something—what, he was too exhausted to hear—and cold rushed past him, a dozen attacks that hit the monstrosity at once, freezing it solid. Carver screamed, bringing his too-heavy sword around to shatter its head, spraying frozen blood droplets everywhere. Then, panting, he whirled, going after a demon that crept up on Morrigan, who slumped against a pillar, exhausted from her part.

With the rescued mages assisting, the last few demons fell, leaving only uncorrupted mages and Carver's party.

"Well, that was exciting." Zevran made as if to wipe a splatter of blood off, and only succeeded in smearing it across his face.

Leliana snorted. "Let's not do it again, though."

Heaving for breath, Carver nodded. "Once was enough," he agreed. He held a hand out to Morrigan, who hesitated before taking it. Drawing her to her feet, Carver swallowed back the shame of being caught at his most personal desires during their earlier trip to the fade. "Are you all right?"

"I am. Fatigued, is all."

"Are you here to kill us, as well?" A older mage stood a few meters away, her eyes weary.

"No," Carver said, not elaborating. "Is one of you First Enchanter Irving? We need him. Wait, I … were you at Ostagar?"

The grey-haired woman nodded. "I was. I am Wynne. Come, Irving is this way." She led him to a pile of robes on the floor. After a moment of panic, the mage inside them stirred, and relief flooded through Carver.

"You … you stopped them. We thought we would be trapped here until the Templars came to kill us all." Irving patted himself down, as if making certain he was still complete.

"Then it's your lucky day." Carver shook his head at his own stupidity; "lucky" may be going a bit far, after all. "Hopefully ours as well. We're here to recruit mages to fight the Blight, and to expel a demon from a child in Redcliffe."

Irving groaned as Wynne helped him to his feet. "Yes, whatever you need. Assuming Greagoir lets us out after this."

"He will. He has promised." Carver called to Leliana, "Bring the poultices. We have more injured here." Once Irving was seen to, he limped away to slump down to the floor. They'd ridden all night, after fighting late into the evening. It must be midday by now, and they had another ride ahead of them to save the child. After which, they would have to—

"You look as though you are fighting the next battle already." Morrigan sat close by him, almost leaning against his side. "You should consider resting instead, so you only have to fight it once."

A bitter smile crossed his lips. "Too tired to rest." He knew it didn't make much sense, but Morrigan nodded in understanding.

"I … wanted to ask you …." She hesitated, unsure of how to broach the subject.

"Later. Please." Carver could not tolerate questions about his family now. While Leliana and Zevran checked that all the mages were capable of movement, the grey-haired mage Wynne left the wounded, standing before Carver.

"We owe you our thanks," she said.

"I'll settle for your help." Carver couldn't use thanks, but the the Blight needed to be stopped.

"I already left the tower once to fight the Blight.. If you will allow it, I would like to go with you, and stay with your group until the Archdemon is defeated."

"If I allow it? I'm not in charge of the tower."

Wynne gave him a smile loaded with years of experience and cynicism. "If a Grey Warden asks, I'm sure it could be arranged."

"Fine. Go arrange it." Just leave me be. Exhaustion pulled at him, dragging him down as if it would forced him through the floor itself. "We'll have to sleep some before we go back," he told Morrigan. There was no choice. If they didn't rest, they were liable to fall out of their saddles.

"I think that advisable. It will take time for our gaggle of mages to ready themselves, at any rate."

Once the mages were ready to move, Carver led them back to Greagoir. He had to pound at the door before it opened, but they did let them all out.

"I'm shocked you managed it." Greagoir stared and stared; they had brought down over a dozen mages. Injured, but all whole and none harboring demons, according to Irving.

"You'll keep your word?" Carver pressed.

"Yes, yes. If Irving is willing to go, you can take a half-dozen mages now. We'll get the tower back to rights, and the rest of the mages will be along when you're ready. As well as enough templars to mind them."

"Good." Carver found the first empty spot on the floor, and unrolled his blankets there, crawling inside. The other three followed his example without complaint, Morrigan bedded up close against him and Leliana and Zevran a few feet away.

If they were in the way, he didn't care. They would just have to deal with it until he had enough sleep to push his injuries back from "insurmountable" to merely "troubling."

§

Irving woke him only a moment later, it seemed, but it was moonlight creeping through the narrow windows, rather than full sun.

"We are ready," Irving told him. "We gathered it was urgent, but if you need to sleep more—"

"No, I'm awake now." He shook Morrigan until she grumbled, then nudged the other two out of their bedrolls.

"Back to work?" Zevran asked. "Such a taskmaster. I should have let you kill me." A huge yawn followed this, and the rest of his complaints were thankfully lost.

"The sooner we begin," Leliana reasoned, "the sooner we can rest again."

Carver was caught up in discussions with Irving and Greagoir about how to get to Redcliffe with six mages—eight, if you counted Wynne and Irving himself—as well as Carver's party of four, with only six horses. No matter how they shook it out, they wouldn't make the same time going back as they had coming in. It was finally decided that Carver, Zevran, Leliana, Morrigan and Wynne would take five of the horses, and the last one was given to a Templar recruit who would travel fast, and bring back more from the stables at the templar headquarters only a few hours' ride away.

"The mages will be a few hours behind you starting out, but they'll ride more slowly. A couple templars might speed them up, but mages simply don't ride very fast," Greagoir explained.

 _Are their legs so very different?_ Carver wondered. He was too tired to argue, however. He did negotiate for a couple of templars to row them to shore, at least; his shoulders still ached from the last journey across the lake.

Carver found himself in a boat with Morrigan and two templars; Leliana, Wynne, and Zevran were in the next one.

"Regarding what I wanted to speak with you about …." Morrigan looked out over the lake, hands folded in her lap.

"Morrigan, I'm tired. I'm not sure if this is the best idea now." _Please just drop it._ His family was his own business.

"I …." She nodded, then accepted it. "I just wanted to thank you for the book. No one has ever … given me anything like this. No reason other than I needed it. Expecting nothing in return."

"Oh." They were talking about the book, then. "It's fine," he reassured her. "I can't use it, and you needed it." He closed his eyes, assuming the subject closed. Leaning back in the boat, he could almost doze off. The night was cool and cloudy, a soft breeze playing at his exposed skin. His flesh rose into goosebumps when he felt her lips press against his. His eyes shot open, but he was too shocked to return the kiss, and she gazed back out at the lake afterward, not explaining herself.

Carver's chest tightened. _Morrigan? Really?_ A thousand questions fought inside his mind, each one vying for a way out of his mouth. Did she desire him? Was it just a thank-you? Most importantly, could they do that again?

But already the templars snickered over their oars, and Carver kept his silence, as did Morrigan beside him. He intended to puzzle out exactly what she meant by kissing him, but he fell asleep again before he made any progress.

§

"Finally," Carver groaned. His ass ached from the long ride, unnecessary from his point of view. The mages would likely be a half a day behind, anyway. But he sent word to the castle, informing them of his return, and when to expect mages. Sleeping under the same roof that Connor and the demon currently ruled unnerved him, so they went to the inn.

It erupted in cheers when they entered, loud enough to shake the walls. Mug after mug was shoved towards him, Carver refusing and looking instead for the owner to ask for some rooms. The owner turned out to be the woman who'd offered him ale yesterday— _was it only yesterday?_ —after the battle for Redcliffe. Near-constant fighting had blurred together in his mind; he no longer knew if he had been a Grey Warden for days, weeks, or months. Perhaps he had been born a Warden, knowing nothing but fighting darkspawn all his life.

The innkeeper was happy to offer two rooms for her guests, and Carver fell into one, stripping and climbing into bed without discussing who would sleep where. The others could sleep on him for all he cared, as long as they did not wake him.

"Carver." Someone shook his shoulder. Carver groaned and burrowed deeper into the blankets. He'd slept enough, but everything ached, and he didn't want to be the hero anymore.

Then a cooling hand brushed his forehead. "You're feverish," Morrigan said. Tendrils of cold worked their way into him, seeking out the sickness. When they withdrew, much of the pain had stepped back, giving him enough room to breathe freely.

"That's a neat trick," he said. "Are we called to duty again?"

Morrigan shrugged one shoulder. "Not quite. I … was reading my mother's grimoire …." One hand ran over its cover, delicate fingers picking out every scratch and dimple.

"And?"

"Well, this is not the true book, for starters. But I've found more secrets than I know what to do with. For example, I know how Flemeth has lived so long and spurred so many tales." She stared at the book in her lap, face blank.

Carver held her hand, encouraging her to get to it, however difficult it was.

"It seems she raises daughters as … a kind of livestock. When they— _we_ —come of age and she's old enough, she kills th—us, taking the body so she can live another lifetime."

"What?" Carver pushed past her to get out of bed, pacing the small room. No, this was unconscionable. Filthy, foul witch. And Morrigan …. He stopped, the anxiety on her face tugging at him, and sat back down, then placed his hands on her shoulders. "She will not have you. Do you hear me? She will not."

Morrigan nodded, gratitude in her face and tone. "Thank you, Carver. She will need to be killed. It will not be easy, and I cannot be present, or she might steal my body then."

"Don't worry. I will kill her, I swear it." He cupped his hand against the back of her neck, drawing her close for a kiss, but she stiffened and turned her face away.

"No," she said. "Not … not now."

"Oh." Releasing her, Carver cursed himself for a fool. Of course she hadn't meant it. She had only been so relieved to have the book, that was all. She might do it again after Flemeth lay dead, and that one wouldn't mean anything, either.

"Carver, tis not—"

"I hear riders." Carver strode to the small window; the mages had arrived. "There we are. I have to get dressed. Go wake the others."

Morrigan's eyes widened at the sudden change in demeanor; he'd been too brusque, he knew. She left without a word, sweeping out of the room quickly. Unable to spare another thought for her just now, Carver gathered his armor, scattered where he had dropped it before sleeping.

§

Jowan met them at the castle gates, speaking in a rapid staccato. "Good, mages. Need one to go into the Fade. Fight the demon directly. The rest can follow my lead. I'll be doing most of it. How much lyrium did you bring? Good, good."

Through the courtyard, into the castle, into the main hall. Preparations had already been set up. Morrigan stripped off her pack and stepped into place, taking only her staff.

"You're going?" Carver asked.

"You saw how the rest of the mages handled the Fade and demons. Do you trust someone else more?" She lifted her chin, challenging him to say he did.

"No, no one. Jowan, start it."

Morrigan cried out as the magic surged, her body crumpling to the floor as if dead. The other mages stayed standing, circled around her. Jowan murmured, to himself or to demons or to the Fade itself maybe, Carver didn't know. He waited, to see if Morrigan would come back victorious, defeated … or not at all.

He breathed a sigh of relief when she stirred some hours later.

"I have never before spent so much time in the damned Fade," she muttered. "Someone else can take the next one."

"The demon! Is it—?" Jowan and the other mages crowded around her, until Carver forcibly pushed them back.

"It's gone," she said. "Someone will have to find the child, I don't know where it left him when it fled."

"We heard him somewhere below. The armory, I think." Teagan snapped his fingers, and a half dozen knights ran out of the room to go looking.

Isolde stood, tears running freely, until he was brought back safe to her. She first embraced him, then nearly tackled Morrigan in an embrace.

"What is this? What is happening?" Morrigan demanded, arms thrust out at awkward angles.

"You saved my boy," Isolde wept. "And without leaving him motherless. I will never forget this." She continued to sob against Morrigan's throat, while the latter struggled to escape, mouthing "help me" over Isolde's head.

Leliana took pity on her, sliding between the two women to take Morrigan's place. She shushed and soothed, letting the poor woman cry it all out.

Zevran, bored with two days of magical interventions in which he could not participate, bounced with extra energy. "What is next? We have much more to do, yes?"

"Yes." Carver grabbed Jowan's robes, pulling him from a circle of congratulatory mages. "The arl. The poison. Antidote?"

Jowan's hysterical grin fell away as though he'd dropped it. "Well, see, the thing is …."


	9. Flemeth

A/N: Sorry about the lateness, folks. Surgery took more out of me than I expected. Figuratively; I'm hoping they only _literally_ took the pieces I'd agreed to XD At any rate, there should be no further delays. Next update next week.

* * *

Chapter Nine

Flemeth

A huge feast spread before them, Carver, Morrigan, Wynne, Leliana, and Zevran fell upon it like ravening wolves. Carver couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper meal. From the way the others ate, they likely couldn't either.

They had the room to themselves, for now. Carver had banned Teagan, Isolde, and roughly a thousand mages and soldiers from listening in on their conversations. Jowan had been returned to his cell until Arl Eamon recovered and could pass judgement on him. Jowan was lucky he hadn't been executed outright; as it turned out, short of the antidote, which had been promised but not delivered, they had little way of reviving the stricken arl.

 _I wish the other Wardens were here to help me decide._ Carver sawed a huge chunk of boar off the bone, juices dripping as he transferred it to his plate.

"I still think Leliana has the best idea," Zevran said, popping a whole meat tart into his mouth.

"The best idea requires another long journey," Carver said. "I'm not sure that's really the best way."

"Another several days on horseback?" Morrigan feigned ambivalence. "Whyever not?"

"The Urn of Sacred Ashes can restore him," Leliana insisted, not for the first time. She picked at the pasty in front of her. "Besides, if not Arl Eamon, who? Loghain has mobilized so many nobles against you. The Couslands are dead, the Howes with Loghain. Without a big name behind us, we may as well give up on the humans. That leaves only the dwarves, the elves, and a handful of mages."

"They are quite the handful." Wynne chuckled to herself. There was something odd about that one. Carver remembered she had done the same sort of things at Ostagar. He had no reason to distrust her, but she was definitely a strange addition.

"And then, we'll also be gone when the others return." Carver shook his head. "We still have to fetch those elves, or we cannot count on them at all. It has been days; they should be back soon enough."

"And if they're not?" Leliana asked.

Carver shrugged. "They could have run into trouble. Perhaps the dwarves, also, were swarmed by abominations."

"We could leave the elves' treaty here, with a messenger," Morrigan suggested, her eyes flicking quickly to Wynne and then back to Carver. "Then we can secure the ashes and the arl's gratitude, and if they arrive to find us gone, the idiot twins can find the elves."

Carver snorted wine out his nose, but Leliana and Wynne both _tssk_ ed under their breath.

"That isn't nice." Leliana scowled like the chantry sister she had been for so long.

Zevran nudged her, inviting her to enjoy the joke with them. "It was amusing, however. From the stories, I cannot wait to meet the other Wardens."

"Everybody be quiet and give me a moment," Carver said. It was a warden decision. Really, Niamh and Alistair should be voting with them. Since they were gone …. He worked on his food while he thought, knowing the next full meal like this might be some time away. Alistair would almost certainly want the arl healed as soon as possible, though he wouldn't speak of his history with the man. Niamh … Niamh had been panicking about time running short. She, too, would think it a good idea.

"We'll go," he said finally.

Wynne sighed. "Such a long journey."

"You won't have to do it," Carver told her. "They have no mage, so you'll stay here to join their group. You will also hold the treaty and inform them of our whereabouts, should they return before we do." He barely knew her, but in addition to serving at Ostagar, she came with glowing recommendations from the First-Enchanter and Head Templar; they had been clear when giving their blessing for her to leave. Aside from her occasional forays into strangeness, she seemed trustworthy.

"Very well." Wynne nodded, accepting his decision.

Zevran dug his knife into a second tart, stabbing it as if to kill an unsettling thought. "Am I to stay here? Perhaps flogged for my lapse in judgement that led me to attack you?"

"No, you're coming. Morrigan and Leliana are both ranged. I'd like someone else with their face inches from the next monster." Carver dropped the last bite of food; his stomach hurt already. He wiped his hands on the tablecloth and rose, waving them back when they all stood with him. "No, no, finish your meals. I must go find Teagan and inform him of our plans. We leave in an hour."

Carver walked slowly; Morrigan had never sat back down, which meant she was likely following ….

"Carver?" she asked.

There we are. "Yes?" He kept his emotions tightly reigned. There would be no demanding answer about why she had kissed him; it was only a kiss.

"About before …."

"Your mother is my first stop. Teagan had said something about a researcher looking for the Urn, in Denerim. The wilds are a little out of our way, but not very." He kept his tone formal, his back straight. No weakness, he told himself. Certainly no display of hurt over a misunderstanding that was entirely on his end.

"Tis not what I meant." Her hands twisted at each other, picking at the nails. "When you tried to kiss me …."

"Stop. Stop right there, and do not say another word. You got your book, I'm going to kill her for you, you don't have to dangle hope of something happening between us to get me to do what you want."

Morrigan's mouth dropped open in shock, and … hurt? Carver didn't know, and didn't care to find out. He strode away, looking for Teagan. He didn't have time for whatever manipulative nonsense she had on offer.

§

Morrigan was quiet when they rode out. Leliana and Zevran kept glancing between them, but also chose to keep their silence.

 _Fine by me._ With Wynne staying behind, her non-sequiturs would, too. They could have a nice, quiet ride to kill the elder witch, then hurry to Denerim for any information on the Urn. With luck, they'd be shaking the arl awake within a week.

With no one willing to speak, the silence settled over them, interrupted only by the plodding of their horses' hooves, the cry off a far-off bird. It wasn't until midday that Leliana broke the silence.

"Are we … are we going quite the right way?"she asked.

"We're veering a bit south to kill a dangerous apostate witch, then hooking north for Denerim. Morrigan will wait for us, as she can't be near."

"I see." Leliana chewed her lip, eyes clouded with thought. Hours later, Zevran asked her to sing; by that point, they were all on edge, and she accepted the suggestion gratefully, launching into a verse about Aveline, a hero-knight from ages past.

Morrigan nudged her horse until she rode directly beside Carver. She waited, seeming to build her courage—or perhaps her argument—for several minutes. "I am not what you think," she finally said.

"Are you not?" Carver asked. Though their voices were low, Zevran and Leliana were only a few paces behind. Leliana sang louder until she drowned out Carver and Morrigan's discussion.

"You think I kissed you to get my way. I did not." For once, she looked flustered, her cool, impassive demeanor incapable of hiding her emotion.

"Why, then? As payment for the book?"

"No!" She looked at him, wounded, and Carver felt a twinge of guilt. Glancing back, he saw the two rogues had fallen further behind, both of them singing now.

"I do not know why you are determined to be difficult," Morrigan muttered. "I told you, no one had ever given me something like that, with no thought to payment. I just …. I was grateful. But not just grateful, that was not all of it. And I wanted to kiss you. I only pulled back when you tried … because I was frightened."

Carver stared at her, stunned. "Of me? You know I would not hurt you."

"No. Yes. I do not know." She threw one hand up in a frustrated gesture, keeping the other clutched tight about the reins. "If you kiss me again, I shall allow it."

"How flattering," Carver said.

Leliana and Zevran were by now quite a distance behind, singing at the top of their lungs.

"That's not what I meant either, I …. Carver, we became friends, which was strange enough for me. Then I felt differently, and … tis all very new and confusing. Can you not meet me halfway?"

Carver swallowed hard, certain his heart was lodged somewhere in his throat, thumping hard enough to choke him. He edged his horse closer to hers, then leaned over, grabbing her and kissing her roughly. She returned his affection this time, moaning slightly as he ravaged her mouth.

After a moment, Carver pulled back, making certain she did not fall off her horse when he did so. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and she looked pleased and surprised.

Then she swatted him, a flare of anger. "Next time, do not be such a dimwit about it all!" she yelled.

"I'll do my best," he replied, grinning. "You two! Catch up already! We have things to do."

Kicking their horses into a trot, Zevran and Leliana closed the distance, Zevran leaning forward to interrogate them.

"Now, I must ask some questions of you later. Take some notes. I have always found that the movement of the horse prevents what you just did … or at least, increases the difficulty substantially. But you pulled it off effortlessly! I must know exactly how you managed. Spare no detail."

Morrigan huffed, spurring her horse to pull out ahead of the others; it was the first time she had willingly increased her speed on the beast.

Zevran, however, was not to be dissuaded. He spoke louder for Morrigan's benefit, getting more and more explicit in his questions and theories until Leliana was nearly giggling herself off her horse, tears streaming down her face. She finally had to beg him to stop in Orlesian, forgetting even those simple words without resorting to her native tongue.

Carver felt such a lightness he couldn't even scold them. Though Morrigan rode far ahead now, she glanced back at him once, her gaze sultry and promising a mutually agreeable conclusion to their talk later.

§

"Who is this witch?" Leliana asked. They had left Morrigan and the horses at the edge of the swamp; Morrigan couldn't go, and the horses would only slow them through this muck.

"It's a long story. Rest assured, it's either her or Morrigan, and we like Morrigan." Carver kept a quick pace, just short of jogging. He wanted to get this done, and be gone.

"Welllllll," Zevran started, "we _accept_ Morrigan. That much can be agreed upon. Although, I suppose that if you take into account how much certain people like Morrigan, it averages out to our liking her quite a bit. But can you average feelings? I'm not sure."

"Zevran, please." Carver almost wished he could trade him back for Alistair.

Almost.

"There's her cabin. She should be—"

"Waiting right here for you, boy," Flemeth finished, stepping out from the shadows by her cabin.

Carver's stomach dropped. She looked … different. Younger, more hale. Had she performed some ill magic that would prevent them from killing her? Or had she perhaps been waiting at the edge of the swamp, already killed Morrigan—

 _Don't be stupid. If she took Morrigan's body, she'd look like Morrigan now. She still looks like herself, just … younger._ "So you knew we were coming?" he asked.

"I knew once she left with you that you'd be back. Odd, though; I thought the other one. Oh, well. Can't be right all the time." She cackled, throwing her head back.

"Do you know why we're here, then?" Something about that was wrong. She didn't seem concerned to find three people hunting her down in her swamp. But she had known he'd be back ….

"Oh, I know why you're here. Morrigan has spun some tale that necessitates my death, so here we are." She stood, unmoving, waiting for him to commit to a decision.

"Are you claiming you don't plan to kill her?" Carver felt as though he were falling, and couldn't quite find his feet.

"I claim nothing," Flemeth replied. "Either you are determined to kill me, or you are amenable to a deal. In neither case does telling my side help. I believe we can skip straight to my offer."

"I am not liking this," Zevran muttered. Leliana murmured in agreement. Both of them stood slightly behind Carver, as though she might attack in a rage at any moment, and they could flee while he fell to the ground.

"What offer?" Carver asked stupidly.

"She'll want my real book, I suppose. That, and the paltry bit of treasure I have hidden, is all you can take to prove my death anyway. So my offer is …." She withdrew a key from inside her blouse, hanging on a chain from her neck. "You take these things to her, and do not try to kill me."

"This would get us out of fighting the terrifying witch," Zevran said. "I can keep my mouth shut quite well, when necessary."

"I don't like it," Leliana disagreed. "She wouldn't offer if she weren't afraid. But if she's innocent …."

"Oh, no one claimed to be innocent, bard." Flemeth murmured something in Orlesian, and Leliana flushed bright red. Then Flemeth turned her attention to Carver once again. "There is your offer. You get everything you came for, except my corpse. I get to keep that. Neither of these two," she said, pointing, "will tattle any tales. What is your answer?"

"I'm sorry, but no. You intend to kill her, and I cannot allow that." Carver drew his sword, determined. He was committed to it, and now would have to kill an old, weak woman, even if somehow she no longer looked old. Or weak. And she looked taller, somehow. Still, she might throw a single fireball before he cut her down.

His stomach twisted, protesting another act of what felt like murder.

"Well, then. I hope you're ready to earn my corpse." Flemeth's voice dropped, lowering beyond any human register. Her mouth kept moving, but he could hear nothing, only feel a deep rumble in his bones. At the same time smoke billowed up, obscuring her from view. Carver couldn't move for a moment, then panic that she would get away set him running into the cloud of smoke.

He burst through, expecting an old woman scurrying away … and flew back as the dragon's tail slammed into his chest, flinging him several meters. Landing on his back, the air whooshed out of him in a rush.

"Oh, dear," Zevran said quietly. The smoke cleared, revealing a huge dragon that towered over her house in place of the tiny old woman they had been sent after.

"This is not what I signed on for," Zevran said.

"Too late now," Leliana replied. She drew an arrow, sending it into the giant, scaled beast, as Zevran drew his daggers and sprinted forward.

Carver lay stunned a moment longer before a gout of flame seared by close overhead, spurring him into motion. She would kill them all, if he didn't get up and help. He threw himself back at her, keeping a close eye on the tail. His ribs flared in agony with every movement; they felt broken.

Leliana had it easiest, standing at a distance, out of range of the Flemeth-dragon's attacks. "Remind me to slap Morrigan's face for for not warning us!" she called.

Still desperately trying to keep his feet, slash at the dragon, and avoid another strike from its tail, Carver couldn't answer, but secretly agreed. He nurtured a fervent desire, unknown before now, to shake Morrigan until her teeth fell out. Sending them up against this, without telling them. Unbelieveable.

Zevran whooped, having somehow climbed up the dragon's neck. He sat behind its head, daggers flashing in too fast to see, until a curtain of blood ran down its face.

Blinded now, the dragon shrieked, flailing as it tried to dislodge the elf. The tail whipped out and caught Carver across the knees this time, sending him crashing to the ground. It passed over him, nearly crushing his head under its claws, and Carver braced the hilt of his sword against the ground, letting the dragon slice its leathery stomach open on the blade.

The scream it sounded then filled the entire world, leaving Carver's ears ringing, but then it was falling, falling. He scrambled backward, almost out of the way before it fell, and Zevran tumbled from his perch.

"Did we lose him? Did we lose him?" Leliana ran forward, shouting, but Carver could barely hear her; the dragon's last death-cry had rendered him half-deaf.

"I'm here," he called, unable to move. When it fell, he had gotten everything but his legs out from under it.

Zevran scrambled over its corpse, Leliana dashed around the side. Both froze when they saw his predicament.

"This may be a problem." Zevran nudged thoughtfully at the heavy body, but it lay unmoving. "We could perhaps cut around?"

"Well, you'd better do something!" Carver couldn't feel anything below the knee; he feared he had lost the legs already.

They didn't have to do anything but wait, however; as the freshets of blood slowed, the dragon started to fold in on itself, smaller and smaller in size, until all the was left was a dead, old woman sprawled in the mud.

The weight off them, feeling in his legs came roaring back, obliterating everything. "Potion," he groaned.

"I'll go." Leliana bent to retrieve the key from the old woman's neck, then ran into the hut. She came back with an armful of potions, forcing once after another into him until he pushed her away, choking.

"All right, enough." Carver coughed, trying to clear the potion from his windpipe, but his legs had quieted to a dull ache. "I'll live."

"And so will we all, for another day," Zevran said. "I never thought I would get to fight a dragon. What luck I've had since not killing you."

Carver flopped back into the mud, content to lie there awhile longer. "You'll get to fight another, if we make it to the archdemon." He shuddered. The archdemon was surely going to be more difficult than a swamp witch who could become a dragon … hopefully they had enough fighters by then.

"I'm not sure," Leliana said. "You know bad luck comes in threes, don't you?"

Carver lifted his head up enough to glare at her, with all the force he could muster. "Don't you dare," he said. "I'm not fighting three of these damn things."


	10. Finding Genitivi

Chapter Ten

Finding Genitivi

None of them were able to tear their eyes from the thing, not for long. Carver lurched inside the hut to take the grimoire—grabbing a few of what looked like Morrigan's things—and hobbled back outside quickly, alert for the thing to start moving again, to rise up and attack once more. His ribs ached, and his legs kept twinging, although they seemed to be supporting his weight. Still, it was a long, limping walk back to where Morrigan waited with the horses.

"You're back," she sighed. "You made it."

"Here." Carver thrust the book at her. "You must have been anxious." Belief had reversed back to doubt again, and he expected she was done with him now he'd done her bidding.

"Not anxious about the book." She dropped it, throwing her arms around him and kissing him hard. Carver's hands found their way to her waist, holding her tight, relief flooding through him.

"I thought …."

"I know," she said. Bending to retrieve her book, she brushed it off before shoving it in her pack. "I told you, that was not my purpose, I …." Glaring at Leliana and Zevran, she changed the subject. "We can discuss this later."

Zevran pouted in mock disappointment. "Oh, I was enjoying the show."

Giggling, Leliana mounted her horse. "Come on," she urged. "I want to see the Ashes."

"We're going, we're going." A hiss of pain escaped Carver as he swung up into the saddle.

"You are injured," Morrigan said.

"I wasn't expecting a dragon." He tried, but couldn't quite keep the accusation out of the tone. _You sent me against a dragon with no warning._ He shifted, trying to find a way to ride that didn't hurt his ribs. It was going to be a long, painful ride, he suspected.

"I did not know she could truly do that." Morrigan colored slightly, eyes downcast. "I thought that one was a story."

"Well, now we know. Any story about Flemeth has a decent chance of being true." He smiled to take the sting out, then nudged his horse to get it moving, instantly regretting it. Yes, it was going to be a very painful ride.

"I'm injured, too. Where is the concern for me?" Zevran asked.

"At your brothel," Morrigan snapped.

"This is true. There is a good one in Denerim … we have to go there anyway …."

"We're not stopping for brothels," Carver said. Hopefully, they would find the researcher—the Brother Genitivi that Teagan mentioned—in Denerim, and he would happen to have some Ashes with him. And then he would also have a flying cloud, which they could ride in comfort back to Redcliffe.

And then the cloud would kill the Archdemon for them.

"And while we're at it, maybe it can cure the taint, as well."

Leliana turned around, meters ahead on her horse. "Did you say something?"

"No," Carver grumbled. With Leliana so eager to lead, he let himself drop back, hoping they would keep a pace that didn't absolutely murder his poor bruised— _please Maker, they're not broken_ —ribs.

§

"So this is Denerim. It smells … less offensive than I would have guessed." Morrigan wrinkled her nose. "Not as good as I would have hoped, but …."

"I'm just glad to be off the damn horse." Carver stretched, but a muscle spasm stopped him before his hands got above shoulder level.

"Eventually you will fall asleep, and I will tend to your injuries," Morrigan threatened.

"Asleep and at your mercy. The horror."

Morrigan laughed—almost a giggle, really—and shook her head. Could it be true? Was she sincere? He watched her tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, head tilted at a coy angle. He needed it to be true. He hoped he wasn't deluding himself.

Zevran jogged back to the group. "Okay, I have some information. Brother Genitivi's house is just across the street from the Gnawed Noble. A tavern. That I would like to go to—"

"If you want the tavern so badly, then go. We won't go looking for you when we're ready to leave." Carver wanted to hit him; they didn't have time for this.

"Oh, all right. I shall suffer along, thirsty and … unloved." The elf fetched a lingering sigh, gazing at the pub when they passed as if his only love lay trapped inside.

"We have water skins," Leliana offered.

"There is something wrong here," Morrigan decided, stopping them from their back-and-forth.

"What do you mean?" Carver bit his tongue; he had almost added "sweetling" to the question. Did he want to know her reaction if he tested such a pet name in public? Carver shuddered, wincing at the pain that followed the movement.

"I am not sure." Morrigan seemed as though to speak, then shook her head. "No, I do not know. But I suggest caution."

Zevran snorted. "You should have told me sooner. I've been rushing into things without a care all week."

"I know," Morrigan said, her gaze icy.

Leliana bounced on the balls of her feet, anxious to be inside. She hadn't said two words other than "ashes" since they left Flemeth's. "We have to track down—"

"We know," Carver said, while Morrigan groaned and even Zevran made a small noise of frustration.

Blushing, Leliana knocked hard at the door, not waiting for them to be ready. "Sorry. But you don't understand. It's the very ashes of An—"

The door swung open, revealing a younger man than they had expected. Taken aback, Carver cleared his throat. "Are you Brother Genitivi?" he asked.

The man's face fell. "Sadly, no. You are looking for him? Come in, come in." He ushered them inside, seating them at the table. "Here, I just made tea. No, most unfortunately Brother Genitivi left without a word, tearing off after his Sacred Urn. Very distressing."

"Awww." Leliana's lip trembled. "Tell me at least you know where he went."

"I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure. I only know he said he was going to Lake Calenhad to follow a trail there, but he's disappeared now."

Carver shot a look to Morrigan, and she raised an eyebrow in return; she had caught that too; left without a word, yet told this man where he was going?

"And what's your name, ser?" Carver asked. The man had disappeared beyond a door, rattling dishes.

Morrigan touched one finger to her lips, then nodded at Leliana. Carver nodded back. Yes, let Leliana talk. Her desperation for the ashes might draw him out again.

"Oh, me? I'm just his assistant. Weylon." He returned with a tray and four cups, and poured tea for them.

Four cups. Not five. "Weylon" did not take one himself.

"Have you any cookies?" Zevran asked. "You cannot have a proper tea without cookies. Biscuits, little cakes, something."

Irritation flashed over his features, but Weylon smiled, getting up again. "Of course I have cookies."

The moment he turned his back, Zevran put his hand over Leliana's cup, drawing it away from her mouth.

"But why—" she whispered, then her eyes went large and she set the tea down.

 _That's the nice part about working with assassins. Never caught off guard by attempted poisonings._

Before Weylon could come back, Carver pointed at her, and she nodded so hard her red hair flew about her face.

"Why was he headed to Calenhad?" she called. "And when did you find he was missing?"

"Oh, it must have been a week ago now. And as I said, he found some interesting details when he arrived. But since then, he's disappeared, spoken to no one."

That was his second slip. Under the table, Zevran drew his daggers, moving slowly enough to make no noise. Leliana and Morrigan, too, were braced, ready to fight the moment he turned on them.

Weylon returned, moving dishes to set the plate of cookies on the table.

"So, he's been sending letters?" Leliana asked.

Shaking his head, he settled into his seat. "No, no letters. Drink your tea, now, don't let it get cold."

Leliana brought the cup to her lips, but didn't drink out of it. "Yet you know what he found at Calenhad?"

"I … well, I mean … he didn't just disappear. I sent some people after him, I didn't just give him up for lost. But those men have disappeared, as well."

"And these men … they disappeared before, or after they told you what Gentivi had found?"

"He … they …." Weylon swore and leapt to his feet, overturning the table. It hit Carver in the ribs, taking him to the ground with it. Morrigan squawked and jumped back, but Zevran and Leliana had been fully ready; Weylon fell to their weapons before he'd made it halfway across the room.

Lying immobile until the table was lifted off him, Carver curled sideways, holding his side. Certainly broken now.

"Not asleep, but helpless enough," Morrigan said. She knelt, her hands flaring blue as she sent healing magic into him.

"I don't need—"

"Be quiet."

Still lying on the floor, Carver looked at the bloody mess that remained of their host, three arrows sticking out of Weylon's head and a knife stuck deep into his back. "It doesn't leave much for questioning."

"Forgive me," Leliana said. "I was expecting another abomination or something."

"We might still find something," Carver said. "Tear this place apart."

Morrigan would not let him up until she'd finished mending the bones, she'd said, but the other two began opening drawers and rifling through books for any stray papers.

"I found another Weylon," Leliana called from the next room. "And—oh! I think I have it." She brought back a diary, flipping through its pages. He had gone to Calenhad, but he left. He was back here, and then …. Haven. He set out for Haven, and left the book here."

"I actually know that place. It isn't so very far," Zevran said.

Carver groaned when Morrigan finally released him, but the pain settled in to a more manageable level.

"Be gentle with them. You break them again, and I will not let you out of bed for a week."

"If I break my ribs, will you keep me in bed for a week?" Zevran asked hopefully.

Carver gave them an hour to visit the marketplace, to gather anything they would need for the journey. He filled his pack with food, then stood waiting. Discomfort would not let him stand still, however; too many people filled the small square, peasants haggled over prices, merchants shouted to draw attention to their wares. Carver also felt himself on display, as though each of these people, engaged in their own business, might instead be watching him. He didn't know to what end. Might there be assassins, intent on killing more Grey Wardens? Someone he knew from Lothering, come to accuse him of his failure in front of everyone?

He didn't know, but it made him uneasy. He busied himself examining the various goods people had on offer, and found himself at a tiny stand which seemed to be mostly jewelry, when something caught his eye. A small golden hand-mirror. His breath caught; in his mind, it was exactly as the one Morrigan described, during one of their talks at the beginning of their journey together.

"You got fine taste, ser," the merchant said, tracking his gaze.

"No, don't do the whole thing. Just tell me the price." He didn't want to haggle.

"Just the—well, ser, first you have to understand, this isn't painted up to look like gold—"

"The price."

"Fine enough to any high lady to keep on her—"

"The price!" Carver roared.

Taken aback, the merchant fiddled with the mirror, finally quoting a number.

Carver's eyes widened. "You must think I'm stupid. It isn't worth half that."

The merchant quoted him another number, at three-quarters the price, and Carver realized that he had accidentally started a negotiation.

"Oh, fine," he snapped. He thrust a handful of coin at the merchant—robber, more like—and took the mirror. Walking away, though, he was certain the mirror had been worth any price at all, if it reminded Morrigan of the other. He slipped it into his pack, wrapping it carefully in a shirt to keep it from breaking, and whistled as he left. She should be much pleased by it.

§

"You're very … chipper," Leliana said.

"Can't I just be happy we're back on the road, and no one wandered off for too long?" Carver asked.

"No." Leliana shook her head. "No, this doesn't seem like you."

"I agree." Zevran peered at him. "Perhaps he found his way to the brothel after all? Does he not look like a man who is … satisfied, with the world?"

Carver flushed, heat spreading up his face. He knew one couldn't combat teasing by telling them to stop, so he let it wash over him, trying not to cringe too badly.

"He does." Grinning, Leliana nudged her horse closer so she could stare at Carver from inches away. "Look at the smug expression! I think he may have fallen in love at the brothel."

"You are too right, Leliana. Whatever will poor Morrigan think? Cast aside for a loose woman …. Such a sad story." Zevran _tssk_ ed under his breath. "And them so close, too."

"She might think," Morrigan said, "that she would rather have the idiot wardens back than listen to you two." Spurring her horse into a gallop, she let it keep its head until she had some distance on them before reining it in again.

"You two are monsters," Carver said.

"We're just having a little fun," Leliana protested.

Carver kicked his horse, catching up with Morrigan as they laughed. "I don't know why they do this," he muttered to her.

"Do you not?" Morrigan threw a glance back at them. "Were I kind, I might point out that they are frightened. They've been caught up in something much larger than themselves. They do not play the biggest part, but they are aware that only three wardens live to fight the archdemon. If they let you fall, Ferelden may fall with you; the other two wardens are not here, and we cannot be sure of their safety.

"Being a warden sets you apart from them, makes you important, but they also have to spend all day with you. They try to find ways to make it seem normal. They tease, as if we were all 'prentices somewhere and nothing of import were happening. They also tease, instead of acting out in other ways, because they really do like you. That is what I might think, were I kind."

Stunned, Carver could only stare at her. He looked back at Zevran and Leliana, now able to see the anxiety underlying every joke. He remembered the way they turned to him after every unexpected noise. "Morrigan, that's … that's amazing, that you see all that—"

"See what?" Morrigan tossed her head. "I am not kind. I think that they are gibbering morons whom I must suffer temporarily."

Carver let her trot ahead, wondering what it was that made her do this. She marched right up to the edge of being kind, then retreated again; she'd done it several times already.

 _I hope she doesn't keep pushing us away,_ he thought, aware that he was lying to himself. He hoped she wouldn't push _him_ away.


	11. Temple of the Sacred Ashes

A/N: I want to thank everyone for the well-wishes; I'm healing up great, it's just taking a long time, that's all. Also thanking all the reviewers—I wrote the whole story at once, so going back to fix pacing while in the middle of posting seemed too daunting, but rest assured I am taking all your criticism into account as I start the next book. And as always (even though I usually forget to type it … bad Echo!) thanks to my beta readers, TenyumeKasumi, Lachdannen, and Tagermeister. It's not their fault if I ignore their input XD

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Chapter Eleven

Temple of the Sacred Ashes

The horses carried them to Haven with no trouble, but the journey wore on Carver all the same. When they had first started out—back at Ostagar, and Lothering—there were people on the roads. Refugees, mostly, but other faces assuring him that Thedas had not been completely destroyed yet. On the way to Haven, they saw no one. Occasionally an animal might stare at him from around a tree, or out from under a bush, but the world felt achingly empty. It began to seem as though the whole of it had emptied, and only he, Morrigan, Leliana, and Zevran were left; perhaps the darkspawn swarm had gotten everyone else while his group traveled.

It came as a relief when they were stopped by a guard on the road into Haven.

"You don't belong here," the guard said, holding his pike ready.

Glaring, Carver drew himself up as tall as he could in the saddle. "I'm a Grey Warden. I belong anywhere I want to be."

The guard spat on the ground, considered this a moment, then lowered his pike. "We're not friendly around here. We don't like strangers. You'll be on your way soon." It was not a hope, but an order.

Carver bristled. "We will take as long as we take," he snapped, riding close enough by the guard that he was forced to take two steps back.

"Morrigan?" he asked, unspoken question evident in his tone.

"Yes, it was odd. We should be on our guard."

The four of them rode into the tiny village, tying their horses up at a fence in front of the store. The town appeared empty, desolate. For a moment, they all waited, unsure of where to start.

Rather, Carver was unsure of where to begin their search; the other three looked at him, waiting and expectant. He was the Grey Warden. He had to fix things, and they were here to make sure he was successful, as Morrigan had pointed out.

"Let's start asking around. Have they seen a Brother Genitivi, and do they know where he went?" He and Morrigan went one direction, the two rogues another.

Most homes did not open to their knock, not even when Carver pounded at the thick, wooden doors until his hand hurt. They found no people, save for a small child singing about either murder, or cannibalism. Carver shuddered, leaving him quickly. The boy didn't answer them when they spoke, at any rate.

"This place …."

Morrigan nodded. "That house's door is ajar."

"So it is. The first door here that is open to us. Shall we?" Carver braced himself as he crossed the threshold, expecting to be yelled at, or attacked, or another creepy child singing morbid songs. The house was empty. Not just empty, abandoned. The very air felt cold and neglected. There was a smell, though ….

"Tis blood," Morrigan said when he sniffed, following the scent. "Human blood," she added. "Fresh." She brushed past him, finding a door that appeared to be a normal part of the wall, and slid it open. Within a small room behind, barely more than a closet, lay a shrine. It was, in fact, covered with blood.

"I'm not sure I want to know how you know it was human," Carver said.

Morrigan shrugged, smiling enigmatically. "Then you ought not ask." Finding nothing helpful at the altar, they left the hovel, still looking for someone to question about their missing priest.

After the house, they wandered back toward their horses. "We never asked the shopkeep, did we? There must be one …." Carver pushed open the door to the shop.

"We're looking for information," Leliana said. She and Zevran had already tried the store, and appeared to be engaged in an argument with the proprietor.

"I told you, I don't know anything about this Geeneeteevee, or his urn." The shopkeep folded his arms, intractable.

"I didn't mention an urn. What are you hiding in the back room?" Leliana demanded.

"Nothing! And don't you go back there. It's private. None of your business."

"Everything is warden business," Carver said. At this point, he didn't know if that was true, or just what the stories had said when he was a child. It worked, though; most people had heard the same stories, and let him do what he wanted after he reminded them of his warden status.

Most people.

"No! You're not going back there!" The shopkeep drew a dagger as Carver walked past him.

Turning, Carver reached for his sword, but between Leliana, Zevran, and Morrigan, the man was dead before Carver's sword could clear its scabbard. Ignoring the body for now, Carver pushed into the back room, his people close at his heel. He stopped so suddenly, Zevran crashed into him, nearly sending them both sprawling into the mess. Stomach turning, Carver was grateful they had managed to keep their feet.

Three corpses lay in a tumble, and something foul had happened to them. Carver could see the one facing him had been skinned entirely.

"Morrigan?"

She crouched, examining the bodies. "They were alive when it happened."

Carver shuddered. "You _have_ to stop telling me things."

They had all seen bodies before, but there was something about these that had everyone uncomfortable. Everyone except Morrigan. She seemed fascinated by the bodies, but when she reached toward them, Carver had to turn around quickly, as his stomach lurched upward and he had to fight it back.

"Soldiers," she said. "They had orders. To find Genitivi, as it turns out." She offered him the blood-streaked note, but he shook his head.

"No, I believe you."

"As you like." She shrugged, dropping the note. "The note also suggested they investigate complaints into Haven's chantry."

"This place? Keeps a chantry?" The blood drained from Leliana's face.

"We should go see. Perhaps that's where all the people have gathered." Carver rolled his shoulders; they'd tightened up enough to cause pain.

"Of course, they are gathered at the chantry. To skin more visitors, or eat babies, or whatever else they do." Zevran's face brightened, sarcastic joy in his tone. "Hey, we are visitors! Do you think they shall fête us?"

Carver ignored him, marching past the store along the path. They had seen everything here, and the other direction was back to the main road. Therefore the Chantry, the people, and anything else Haven had would be further in.

"The horses …?" Leliana asked.

"Safer for them here." _I hope._ In truth, he didn't think anyone or anyone was safe here.

The path took them up a shallow hill, and halfway up, the chantry roof appeared, getting closer with every step. His heart thumped hard. He wanted no part of this strangeness. But they needed Haven for Brother Genitivi, they needed Genitivi for the urn, they needed the urn for the arl, and they needed the arl and the armies he could raise for fighting the Blight. _For want of a nail_ , he thought. He would not be the cause of their defeat because he was too frightened to go into a damn church.

The chantry was barred to them when they got to the doors. Carver lost his sense, briefly, drawing his sword and hacking at the sealed doors to no effect.

"If I may?" Morrigan asked.

Zevran and Leliana drew Carver back, and Morrigan's eyes glazed. Her hands swirled in front of her, building a ball of fire in the air.

"We … might want to be further back," Zevran suggested.

The three of them jogged some distance, while Morrigan built her fire until it dwarfed the doors in their way. Then she shoved it forward. It collided with the door in a huge explosion, sending burning fragments of wood flying every direction.

Carver ducked, then stared blankly. Beside him, Leliana and Zevran also stared, mouths and eyes open wide in shock.

Morrigan only smiled, brushing the ash off her hands. "The door is open."

Inside was all darkness; the windows had been boarded up. It smelled musty, as though no one had been there for some time. Yet, people waited. Five people in deep, blood-colored robes stood as one, their faces shadowed by their hoods.

"You were told you were not welcome," one said.

"For the last time—" Carver started, but the hooded strangers moved, each bolting a different direction as they sent lightning and frost about the room. Two different spells struck Carver, and he fell, but he heard the others fighting. Scrambling to his feet, Carver drew, quickly bringing his sword up against the mage who swooped down on him. Blood and brain exploded outward from the rent skull, and Carver looked for his next target.

Leliana yelped, dropping her bow, and Carver lunged, running his sword through the mage who loomed over her. The other three fell to Zevran and Morrigan, and the room returned to the crypt-silence that held sway in Haven.

"Search them. Find anything. Find out why in—" He paused, hearing something. He held up a hand for silence, and the others waited.

"Oh," Leliana whispered. She dashed to one side of the room, pressing her fingers into the grooves between the stonework. "It's here, somewhere, it's—got it." A section of wall slid open, another hidden door. Inside, an old man lay in a circle painted of blood. Strange symbols cavorted around the edges of it. The man wheezed, gasping as if on his dying breath.

Morrigan rushed over to him, hands gentle, and Carver knew from experience, cool on wounds. "He shall live," she pronounced. "Give me a moment to help him."

The man on the floor struggled, but too weakly to push her away. Leliana crouched to hold his hands, offering comfort and keeping him still. He muttered, though; his tongue would not stay silent. Carver caught something about "monster," and "murder," then something else about "ashes" and "urn."

"I think we found brother Genitivi," he said.

§

After Morrigan had healed as much as she could for the time being, they brought Genitivi out of the Chantry. Unwilling to go inside any of the buildings in Haven, they sat in the road, eating a small meal as the priest explained what he'd been doing there. From him, they found that most of Haven had gone mad; the mad ones had killed those who were still sane, and one of the mages they'd killed wore an amulet which would unlock the temple, where the rest of Haven now lived, worshipping a living Andraste.

"A living Andraste?" Leliana asked, eyes round. "Will we meet her?"

"I do not even know if she exists outside their fevered imaginations. They have the urn, however, so we shall have to deal with them."

Carver paused, setting down his pasty. "Brother, forgive me, but I don't think you're in any condition to deal with them. You will have to trust us to take care of it."

"You cannot leave me here!" Genitivi clutched at Carver's arm, surprising strength in a man who looked so close to death. "I will wait at the entrance of the temple, and be safe enough. But you cannot leave me here."

Sighing, Carver nodded his assent. He was right; no one should be left alone in Haven. "All right. Now, tell us again how to unlock the temple."

From Genitivi's description, they had farther to go than Carver had thought. So after gathering the amulet, they retrieved their horses and rode up to the temple, Brother Genitivi riding pillion with Leliana. The temple lay further into the hills, an imposing edifice that looked older than some even Ostagar had.

 _Who built it?_ Carver wondered. _And why?_ Carved dragons decorated every surface, it seemed, and the ancient text carved into the doorways appeared to threaten, though none of them could read it. Although Carver suspected Genitivi could, and was not being forthcoming.

But the door opened before them once the amulet was pressed into a carved depression for it, and they temple lay open to them.

"You'll stay here," Carver said again. Once Genitivi nodded, he and Morrigan stepped forward, Leliana and Zevran following.

"Temple" did not seem to be quite the right word. There were pillars, and ancient statues of … something. Some appeared to be dragons, others what the offspring of a dragon and human might make, if they could. Others looked like nothing Carver could explain at all. Those parts did seem to be a temple, of sorts. But the smooth, shaped walls only extended to about twice his height, and after that was nothing but untouched stone: wet, living cavern that would grow. They had to weave their way through stalagmites, some of them big enough for the missing Havenites to be hiding behind them.

Genitivi had told them the Temple proper lay ahead, so they made their way forward. They did not bother with locked doors that looked to lead to side-passages; ahead, after a massive fountain, larger doors waited, and those should lead onward.

Carver moved slowly, unable to resist studying each statue he passed. They were utterly bizarre. One appeared to be nothing but tentacles, and another looked like some monstrosity one might find in the ocean, if unlucky. The others seemed just as fascinated as he was.

Morrigan reached the doors first, and they swung open at her touch, no resistance. At any moment, they expected mad Havenites to swarm them, but they found no one until they reached a set of branching hallways, and there they found only corpses.

"It looks like an animal attack," Morrigan said after examining the bodies. "A somewhat large animal."

They continued on, passing more corpses as they went, the numbers increasing. They did not stop to look carefully, but some of the bones had been crushed, as in powerful jaws. Coming to an airy antechamber, a huge pile of bodies nearly blocked the way. Not all had died from animals; some were singed by magic or rent by blades.

"They fought each other," Morrigan said. No one disputed this.

"Are there any left?" Carver asked.

Leliana shrugged. "We've seen so many. Some were killed by beasts, and others by each other. They may all be gone."

If they were, then what had happened here would be a mystery for all time; the dead could not explain.

 _At least it gets us out of another exhausting fight._

The hallways grew wider, magnificent, then narrowed again. The last hall they took was filled with rock, wet and still growing. By the end of it, Carver was crawling, barely able to fit with his armor through the narrow passage. He was about to call behind him that they would have to go back, find another way around, when it opened unexpectedly, and he crashed to the floor. He rose quickly, helping first Morrigan, and then Leliana out.

"My hero," Zevran cried, reaching for the offered hand.

"Not if you're going to make jokes about it," Carver snapped, snatching his hand back. The tunnel he'd just left looked too close and claustrophobic by half; he hoped they found a better way out.

There was nothing in this room save another set of doors, but opening that one, they found themselves outside, on the peak of the mountain. A narrow path with sharp cliffs falling on either side led to the temple. The wind whipped at them, threatening to pull them down if they tried to cross, but Carver was focused solely on his goal.

 _Finally._ Carver breathed a sigh of relief. "There. Within lie our ashes. Let's go grab them so we can leave."

They took the path one at a time, arms outspread to keep balance. There were no handholds, no way to stop oneself from falling if balance betrayed them. The wind tugged and pulled, insistent, but took none of them. One by one, they made it across. Just before the entrance to the Temple sat a gong, its purpose a mystery.

Zevran stared at it overlong. "I wonder if I just—"

"Don't!" the other three yelled in unison, then laughed at each other. Carver didn't know why it made him nervous, but it did.

A sign on the temple doors commanded them to, "Enter with reverence, or not at all."

"They mean you two," Carver told the rogues, although Leliana would not need the warning.

Her eyes shone, her face full of hope and wonder. "This is the resting place of our Holy Lady Andraste. I could not be more reverent than I am at this moment."

Carver strode through the doors. He felt some of the reverence himself, but had never been a devout Andrastian. Zevran and Morrigan may have felt some of it, or none at all, but they kept quiet and respectful, nonetheless.

They crossed a long room that looked like a temple; detailed stonework graced the walls, and there was no hint of unfinished cave in here.

"I'm not sure—"

A shriek interrupted him, and a dragonling charged forward out of the shadows. Morrigan, already twitchy, sent such a blast of magic at it that it exploded, raining bits of gore and scales and teeth down in a radius around them.

"Urg." Leliana shuddered, wiping herself down.

Flicking a chunk of flesh off his paldron, Carver made a moue of distaste. "I think we found what killed the Havenites."

"Serves them right. I do not like this place," Morrigan declared, wiping a smear of dragonling guts off her cheeks.

"Do you not?" Zevran asked. "The intimate caverns, the local wildlife, the brisk atmosphere. Is it not a splendid way to spend an afternoon?"

Leliana giggled, clearing her throat when Morrigan glared at her.

"Come on," Carver said. At the end of the hall stood another large set of doors, closed against them. Statues flanked it, watching like sentinels.

"It's big," Leliana said dubiously.

Zevran ginned. "Well—"

"No!" Morrigan cried. "No more. One more joke, and I will skin you for an extra satchel."

Pouting, Zevran dropped the joke, turning to Carver. "She isn't any fun," he said.

Carver grunted from where he'd already thrown his full weight against the door; it wasn't budging yet. "Would all of you please, just—"

"Wait." The voice came so quietly, no one was sure at first they'd heard it. Morrigan was the first to spot him.

"Oh, for the love of—spirits," she spat, her tone dripping with disgust. "Are we to spend every day arguing with spirits? I grow weary of this. I am not dealing with this one, someone else can." She stomped off, dropping to the floor in a huff.

The spirit stepped forward from one of the statues, a spectral form that moved like mist, his features undistinguishable. "In order to reach the urn, you must prove yourselves worthy." His voice whispered to them, paper-thin, and Carver had to strain to hear.

"There is, ahead of you, a gauntlet, and you must pass it in order to proceed. No one who is unworthy will survive the trials ahead."

Zevran laughed. "That leaves me out. I'm afraid I've never been considered worthy by religious institutions. I can prove my worth other ways …." He paused to wink at Leliana. "But I fear the spirit would be uninterested."

"I would not go if the spirit begged me," Morrigan called from across the room.

Carver glanced to Leliana. "Can more than one go?" he asked the spirit.

"More than one may try, but if only one is worthy, only one will pass. Walk through the door when you are ready. There will be more tests beyond."

Uncertainty ate at him. Fighting darkspawn was one thing, but spirits judging worthiness … would they accept him, or was this it?

"What kind of test, I wonder?" Leliana tapped her lip with one finger. "I can fight. I was also a chantry sister for many years, and educated a great deal about Holy Andraste. And I am only interested in the ashes to save a great man." She paused, considering. "Is that the sort of thing you're looking for, spirit?"

The spirit had partially faded, but brightened at being addressed again. "I can only warn you that those looking for gold and glory have failed. If you are worthy, walk through the door, and face the tests beyond." Then the spirit faded completely, leaving them alone in the dark cavern, facing an immovable door.

"I think I can do it," Leliana decided.

"I'll go with you." Carver rolled his shoulders. "I only want them to save the arl as well, and two may be better equipped than one."

Leliana nodded. "Perhaps. So just … walk through, he said?" She studied the door. She'd seen false doors, and doors with secret ways to open them, but never a door that could be walked through solid. She clasped her hands and prayed. "Andraste, guide me. Andraste, lead me to your ashes so that we may save your people."

She placed on hand on the door as if testing it; it seemed solid enough to Carver. Perhaps the spirit had been mistaken?

"I will wait for five minutes on the other side," Leliana told him. "If you're not through, I will assume you could not pass and I will bring the ashes back."

"I will be right behind you," Carver promised.

Leliana smiled, then without hesitation, turned and walked through the door, passing through its solid stone as if it were nothing more than an illusion.

"Pretty trick," Morrigan said. She had crept up beside him again, but Carver no longer jumped; he was too used to her being there.

"It would make a most excellent door for paranoid nobles. Hard to assassinate someone, if they simply can't get in." Zevran pressed hard on the door, then examined it all around the edges. "Yes, I think when I retire, I shall commission one just like it."

Carver took a deep breath to steel himself. "I will return shortly," he announced, then strode toward the door. Instead of it yielding the way it had for Leliana, it smashed him full in the face. He fell, his nose gouting blood. Pain howled through him, his nose throbbing in wounded protest.

"Well, that was a shorter test than you thought," Morrigan remarked. To her credit, she didn't say it with as much sarcasm as she could have.

"We'll wait here," Carver decided, his voice foggy through the broken nose and freshets of blood.

Morrigan knelt beside him. "Let me see," she said, pulling his hands away. She hissed lightly. "Well, tis not … terrible. Broken noses add character, do you not think?" She placed her hands over Carver's face, and soothing relief started flooding the pain away immediately.

"Oh, yes, character," Zevran agreed. "And of course, broken noses tell a story. Your nose will now tell the story 'One time, I tried to walk through a solid stone door.'"

Morrigan snickered quietly, and Carver's eyes widened. He decided not to tell her that she had actually laughed at one of the assassin's jokes; she seemed unaware of it, and he saw no reason to anger her.


	12. Ashes and Arl

Chapter Twelve

Ashes and Arl

Carver had just been mulling over whether to make a proper camp and plan to spend the night, when Leliana burst back through the door.

Leliana's robe was torn, ash and soot covered her from head to toe, and a cut on her cheek had narrowly missed taking her eye, but she'd returned.

Carver leapt to his feet. "Leliana—"

"I was given riddles! And I had to fight my own past, it was amazing. It was tailored just to me. Everything in there was a particular challenge, just for me, so I had to prove myself before visiting our Lady." A grin split her face; she beamed. The others gathered around her, though Morrigan hung back a step, and Zevran's face held mild interest, at best.

"Did you get them?" Carver demanded, cutting right to the heart of the matter.

"I got them." She bounced on her feet, reaching into her pack. Delicately, she brought out a tiny glass bottle, stoppered up and half-filled with ashes. "Only a pinch, but that is all it would take. Either Our Lady blesses him, or She doesn't. It's all up to Her, now."

 _Such a small thing,_ Carver mused. He made as if to touch them, then drew his hand back. They weren't for him. Then it hit him that they'd succeeded, they had what they came for, and he sagged in relief. "It's done, then. Can you go on, or do you need to rest?"

"Oh, I couldn't rest now. Come, let us not waste this gift by returning too late to help."

Morrigan and Zevran broke their temporary camp, getting bedrolls rolled and packing food away. Carver and Leliana walked close, marvelling over the ashes so that they missed everything going on around them. Had they not had Morrigan and Zevran to guide them, they would have bounced off of walls for several hours more until the mystery of the ashes released them from its grip.

When Carver looked up, they were outside, and Morrigan shook his shoulder, a growing look of irritation on her face.

"Finally!" she snapped when he focused on her. "We have to do the cliff-walk again. Do you think you two can pay attention long enough not to fall to your deaths?"

"Of course. Sorry, Morrigan." He hung his head; he had not known such a love for the divine still existed in him. But having the remains, so close in front of him, he had discovered—

"No." Morrigan snapped her fingers in front of his nose. "Come back. We must move. Shall I hold the ashes?" she asked

Leliana shrank back, clutching the tiny bottle close to her chest.

"No," Carver said. "We're all right, now." He raised an eyebrow at Leliana, and she nodded.

"I'll be fine. Besides, should I fall, we'd lose them, wouldn't we?"

"I know I would not be climbing down the cliffs to retrieve them. Now, we—wait, where is the prancing idiot?"

"Zevran?"

He had not followed them to the place where the narrow cliff started; he was further back, by that damn—

"Zevran, no!" Carver yelled, too late.

A booming from the gong filled the air, echoing over the mountains. Had there been anyone alive left in Haven, the sound would have carried to them. Carver thought perhaps the sound might carry all the way to Redcliffe.

Zevran gave them a sheepish grin. "Sorry, sorry. But you know—"

Under their feet, the mountain rumbled. Little scurries of dirt crumbled away, flinging themselves off the cliffs and falling hundreds of meters before they disappeared to view. The shaking increased; the entire world seemed to quake around them.

"Avalanche?" Leliana asked, shoving the ashes back into her pack for safekeeping.

"Would that we were so lucky," Morrigan snapped. "Tis your third dragon."

It rose, crawling from a crack in the peaks, leathery wings spreading wide and blotting out half the sky. It shrieked, sending a tower of flame into the air, then leapt, catching itself on the wind.

 _Fight or run? Fight or run?!_ Carver, immobile for long enough to save his life, decided they had no choice but to fight. He drew his sword, screaming as he charged toward the temple, to the only area open enough for the thing to land. If they tried to cross the narrow path, none of them would make it to the other side.

Morrigan followed, grumbling; Leliana drew her bow as she ran. She had better range than even Morrigan, and it would be her job to harass it until it landed.

Zevran had his daggers at the ready, but his look of fear was directed to Carver and Morrigan, rather than the dragon. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that to—"

"Later!" Carver shouted. Overhead, the dragon circled, testing them with little shots of flame, while they banded close together around Leliana. Her first three arrows arced uselessly, the wind and the dragon's speed conspiring to make them fall short, but the fourth sunk into its shoulder. Another followed, grazing past its eye, and that was apparently enough to make the dragon rethink its ranged approach. It slammed into the ground in front of them, the earth shaking once more, and sent a wall of fire at them.

Morrigan flung her hands up, hastily conjuring a shield to keep the worst of it off them. "Well, do you plan to kill your new pet, or not?" she asked Zevran.

Carver and Zevran sprinted forward. "Just like last time," Carver called. _Excepting for the part when it breaks my ribs and crushes my legs._ Although at least this time if he broke the ribs, Morrigan would be more incensed with Zevran than with him.

The beast was fearsome, but less skilled than Flemeth had been, at least. Morrigan's magic kept them protected from the flames, and Leliana's steadily released arrows were a source of distraction as Carver slashed at it, driving it back. Zevran found his preferred perch, clinging to the scaled neck as he stabbed into its face, but the cliffside was coming too soon.

"Morrigan! We need a hole in its wings!" Carver ducked as the lightning skimmed over his head, singing his hair, and the bolt tore right through the thin, batlike membrane.

Howling in agony, the dragon shuffled further back; its back legs were on the very edge, now.

"Zevran, down!"

Glancing behind him, Zevran swore, flinging himself away from the beast. He rolled, too close as the dragon determined to stomp him under one massive claw.

Then Morrigan's second bolt hit the other wing; it stepped a shade too far back, and its hind legs scrambled to find a grip on nothing but thin air and falling scree. It seemed to fall more slowly than it should, great wings flapping but unable to provide any lift. One wing tore away from the bone entirely as it rolled backward, bouncing twice off the mountain then disappearing into mist far below, its scream fading until it abruptly stopped.

Heaving for breath, Carver rounded on Zevran, still lying where he'd fallen. Beyond him, Morrigan peered over the edge, lightning poised in her hands in case it rose again.

"What do you have to say for yourself, you halfwit elf?" He shook with fury. Such a stupid thing, to nearly get them all killed. How could he have possibly thought it was a good idea?

Still sprawled, Zevran shrugged, moving scree around him like he was making a snow-spirit. "It was a gong. You have to strike a gong."

Carver couldn't speak. Rage had taken his senses, his ability to speak, and any idea other than killing the damn elf and leaving him here. Luckily for Zevran, Morrigan placed a cooling hand on Carver's neck, bringing him back to himself in an instant.

"You," she told Zevran, "are a moron."

"Wait, I can't—they're gone—" Leliana rooted around frantically through her pack, but a moment later, she relaxed. "No, I found them." She kept them clutched in her fist, unwilling to have them even so far as her pack for another second. "Let's get out of here before anything else can happen."

§

The horses bore them to Redcliffe faster than they'd made the trip out; it seemed even the dumb beasts were anxious to be done. Meeting them at the gate, Teagan had a thousand questions, and a hundred updates on the arl, all of which boiled down to "Did you bring the ashes?" and "The arl is unchanged."

Unwilling to touch the ashes and possibly taint them, Carver let Leliana give them to the arl. She requested mulled wine, mixing them and pouring the concoction into the arl's mouth, a few drops at a time so he could not choke.

"How long, do you think?" Carver asked.

"I have no idea. I've never done this before, either." Leliana sat on the very edge of the arl's bed, ready to jump up at any moment. Within an hour, the first stirrings were visible in the arl's fingers, and Isolde and Teagan clung to each other, weeping.

"He's returning to us, I know it," Isolde said.

That seemed to be true, but that did not mean it was happening tonight. Carver pulled Teagan aside. "My people need rest. We need food."

"Of course, of course. I'm so ashamed." He called for servants, sending them scurrying to prepare rooms, and a feast, and baths, and anything else the "heroes," as he called them, might need.

Carver hissed as he sank into his bath, a luxury rarely afforded. The tub forced his knees up nearly to his chin, but the hot water cooked away all the tightness in his muscles, leaving him a half-melted mess. He would sleep well, he predicted.

Before retiring, he thought to give Morrigan her mirror; he'd forgotten about it in the mad rush to first get to Haven, then bring the ashes. Now that he had a moment to think, he wanted her to have it as soon as possible.

He had to ask a servant, but she led him to Morrigan's room, and he stopped, anxiety swelling. What if she didn't like it? Before his nerve could flee entirely, he rapped at the door.

"Carver? What brings you?" Morrigan's damp hair lay loose about her shoulders and she wore only a dressing-gown.

"Aren't the baths wonderful?" he said, then cursed himself for his stupidity.

"Yes …?" Doubt clouded her features.

 _I'm making a botch of this._ "Here," he said, thrusting the mirror at her.

Hesitant, it took her a moment to take it from him. "Tis … tis a mirror."

"It's for you." Carver stared at his feet, shifting from one to the other. "You, uh, you told me about the other one. And I saw this one. And I thought of you. And I wanted you to have it." His mouth snapped shut gratefully when she placed a hand over it, stopping the incessant babble.

"It is lovely. I … did not expect you to remember." Morrigan drew him further into the room, shutting the door behind him. "I don't know what I can give you in exchange for such a thing …."

"It's—no, Morrigan, it's a gift. I gave it to you because I thought you would like it, not to get anything in return." Carver felt like he was finally on solid ground again; Morrigan argued, so he could argue back.

"I … thank you." She ran her fingers over the gilt frame, eyes far away.

"So, I'll be, uh … going, then."

"Wait," she said, catching him by the arm. "I meant to ask. You never spoke of your cousin, though it seemed you intended to see her from the start. And then your family, and in the Fade—"

"Please, can we not mention the Fade?" Carver sank onto the edge of her bed, insides roiling. If there was anything he didn't want to explain to Morrigan, it was why such a scene would be given to him as his great temptation.

"I only wondered …. Why did you not speak of them? Ever?" She set the mirror down on the table beside her bed, then sat next to him. Her warmth permeated through to him, and he found himself sweating.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Family has always been …." _A weakness,_ he thought, but he couldn't say that. Not to her. "I don't know," he said again. "Could we change the subject?"

"Certainly." She pressed against him, leaning forward to kiss him, and Carver's hands found their way to her waist. The dressing gown shifted, nothing underneath it to snag fabric against fabric. Her tongue explored his mouth, and she pushed him back until he lay flat on the bed, Morrigan straddling his waist.

Carver didn't know how far she intended, but he was ready for anything. He shifted, hoping he wasn't pressing too hard against her, but she ground her hips, and he moaned, still returning the kiss. "Morrigan, if this is your way of asking for something …."

"I am only asking if you would like to stay the night," she said, a faint smile curving her lips. She ran a hand through his hair. Her dressing gown had fallen open, her entire length pressed against him as she moved, writhing with delicious slowness.

"Yes," Carver managed. "Oh, Maker, Morrigan, _yes."_

§

In the morning, Arl Eamon had improved to mumbling in his sleep and sluggish movements under the covers. Leliana, her eyes ringed with heavy dark circles, said she thought he would be awake by afternoon.

"Then if you sleep now, you can be awake for that." Carver crossed his arms, unmoved by her protest. She was too tired and weak by now to truly fight. He handed her off to a couple of servants, instructing them to be sure she got cleaned and forced into bed.

"There you are." Teagan gestured for him to follow, then led him into a small, private dining hall, where Isolde and Connor broke their fast. The boy still looked haunted by his part in the disaster here, but Isolde beamed. Her hands kept reaching out to touch the boy, as if assuring herself he was there and still whole. Carver thought she might need time to understand her son and husband had both come back to her.

"Some other things happened while you were away, but everyone was so focused on Eamon," Teagan said, by way of explanation. "Your other wardens came back."

"They're here?" Carver was halfway out of his seat before the man shook his head.

"And gone again. Your circle mage insisted they go after the elves, and said you would be some time. We honestly didn't expect you for another two or three days, at least. They did leave the qunari as a messenger, but he … did not seem overexcited by his task."

Carver tried to imagine Sten as a page, running important scraps of paper between nobles, and snorted laughter. "No, I don't think he would be."

"At any rate, they were clear that there is no need to chase after them. They had two more with them, a dwarf, and … some kind of walking, talking … golem thing. You are of course welcome to stay here for now, although the arl may have other plans."

Carver's goblet paused on the way to his mouth. "You don't think he'll want to rest for a time?"

Teagan laughed. "With Loghain running roughshod over Ferelden and the Blight about to overtake us all? You should rest now. I doubt you'll get to once he wakes."

True to Teagan's prediction, Arl Eamon had them assembled and preparing to leave before he'd been awake an hour. Despite the pressure to hurry, Carver felt light-hearted. Partially, it was that this felt like the final push. Eamon had a plan to call a Landsmeet and remove Loghain from power, and once that was done, the humans would band together to throw their combined forced at the Blight. Alistair and Niamh should shortly be back, with elven allies, but even should they be late, the dwarven forces had already assembled. They would throw off the Blight, defeat the archdemon, and Ferelden could be at peace again.

The rest of his happiness was Morrigan. He would not have credited it when he met her, but he found such peace in being with her. In the little smiles she gave no one but him. In the way a possessive hand would rest on him when they sat close enough. He had not expected such a thing from her, and he thought he would never get over the joy of knowing she was his.

After making certain no one was watching, she rose on tiptoe to kiss Carver's cheeks as he checked his horse's tack. "I would speak with you," she said. "On the road?"

"Of course." He hoped the insane grin swallowing half his face didn't scare her off. He could not make himself stop smiling.

"And you are leaving me here. All alone." Zevran fetched a dramatic sigh.

 _It's a wonder he doesn't throw himself on the ground, wailing and tearing his clothes._ "Come, Zevran. Most of the castle will still be here. As will the chambermaid who's been making eyes at you all day. And the footman who's been making eyes at you all day. And I think the arl's valet … you'll have your pick of companionship." Carver shook his head; how did the elf attract so much attention in such a short time? "We need someone to stay, a trusted messenger to be certain and update Alistair and Niamh properly." He placed a hand on the man's shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze. "We're trusting you."

"This is just because I'm in disgrace over the gong incident."

Carver's hand squeezed harder until Zevran yelped, and Carver hurriedly took his hand back, smiling in apology. "Sorry. But yes, it did cross my mind."

"You make one mistake …." Zevran trailed off, face a misery.

"Never mind. They should be back soon enough, and you can catch us up. Sten, you ready?"

"I am always ready."

Carver's group were waiting, horsed, while the regular army got their gear together, but they all moved out before the sun had disappeared fully at the horizon. Men rode with torches at intervals down the line. Though Teagan had argued waiting for morning to be a better idea, Eamon could not tolerate another delay after being unconscious when he was needed, so they rode at night.

After a time, Morrigan nudged her horse close, then jerked her head out at the darkness, spurring away from the column. Carver followed, but his gut twisted. What was so important that no one could be allowed to hear? And why did she look like a woman in mourning?

He caught up with her, but she rode in silence still, unable or unwilling to speak. Finally, Carver couldn't take the quiet anymore. "Morrigan, what's wrong?"

"You need to leave me."

For a moment, Carver was only confused; why did she call him out here, if she did not want his company? Then the understanding slipped into him, a little at a time, and he knew she meant for good. "Morrigan, why?"

She gazed out into the darkness, not looking at him. Away on his other side, the line of torches marched on, oblivious.

 _Look at me, damn you._ "Morrigan, I would not leave you for anything. Please tell me what's wrong."

"All of it." She shrugged one shoulder, then sighed. Her hips swayed easily in the saddle now she had some practice. She could ride with the reins held loose, not minding where the horse was going, and break his heart, all at the same time. "Carver, this cannot work. It is going to end badly. You need to leave me now, while you still have the chance."

Relief flooded him; was that all? "Morrigan. Morrigan, stop." He grabbed her reins, stopping the horses so he could take her chin and turn her face to him. Her eyes sparkled in the torchlight; she was nearly crying.

"Morrigan, I love you. You don't have to fear what lies ahead. We will face it together." Leaning forward, he tried to put all his love and trust for her into his kiss. More than anything, he wanted to reassure her. Of course she was scared; all of this would be new to her.

"That isn't what I mean," she said. "There is more than merely the trouble every pair must deal with—"

"I know. And Morrigan, whatever it is, I will gladly face it for you. _With_ you. Will you not do the same?"

Chuckling to herself, Morrigan wiped her eyes. "You must think I'm being foolish. Well, if you cannot be dissuaded …." She drew something out of her pocket, handing it to him while she stared into the night again. "Take this," she demanded.

He held a ring. _A ring? She's giving me a ring?_ "Morrigan, I don't know what to say."

"Calm yourself. It is so I can track you, nothing more." Her voice was sharp, back to the old Morrigan he fell in love with. No more moping or weeping.

"So, you go from 'please leave' to 'if you leave, I'll hunt you down'?" Quick turnaround." Smiling, he slipped the ring on. It thrummed briefly, then fell still.

"Oh, I don't expect you to bolt in the night. This is in case … something happens."

"I see." The ring warmed against his skin, and stayed warm. He wondered if it would do so indefinitely. "Morrigan, I promise you. If for whatever reason I am taken away, I will always come back for you."

"I know. Tis one of my greatest fears." She spurred her horse, galloping back into the line, leaving Carver behind, once more unable to calm the roiling thoughts in his mind.

 _Now what exactly did she mean by_ that?


	13. Anora

Chapter Thirteen

Anora

They rode into Denerim just as dawn kissed the sky, soft pinks and golds burning away the darkness. They had all trudged to the city gates, but everyone's shoulders straightened as they passed under. Now they knew food, and rest, lay just ahead, in the arl's city palace.

Servants scurried every direction, preparing rooms and meals for the distinguished guests, while soldiers gathered in the yard, waiting to be assigned a place to bed down.

Carver and Morrigan were given a room with a large bed, which Morrigan sank into the moment the door closed. Carver flopped next to her, kicking his boots off and not bothering to get undressed.

"I must say, I much prefer castles to sleeping huddled by the side of the road." She sighed, burrowing into the rich bedclothes.

"I'll buy you a castle tomorrow," Carver said, voice muffled by the pillow. "And give me an hour or so to sleep, so I can ravish you properly."

She pushed him. "You do what you like, but you had best not wake me. I plan to sleep until supper."

He drew her in for a kiss. "Fine, I'll ravish you at dinner."

Laughing, she wriggled away from him. "Whatever you like, so long as I can sleep."

They had just settled, Carver curled up behind her, her hair tickling his nose, when someone banged on the door.

"That's it, I'm killing them." He covered Morrigan's ear, then shouted at the door. "Go away!"

Instead, a servant burst in, giving a hurried bow. "I'm sorry, ser—" His eyes widened, then he averted them, looking away from the couple lying together in bed. "But they're calling for you. Both of you."

Groaning in unison, Carver and Morrigan dragged themselves out of bed.

"Where?" Carver asked.

"I will take you. Just … I'll wait outside," he said, scurrying away again.

"If they are stealing my sleep for no reason …." Electricity crackled through her tone, and Carver took her hands, hoping to forestall the storms she could call at will.

"You can't kill them, sweetling." He kissed her on the nose. "I'm going to kill them first."

§

"I'm sorry to have called you all here. We have a crisis," Eamon said once they were assembled.

Leliana yawned, rubbing at her eyes. Sten, as always, stood immobile, face unchanged as he waited.

"Go ahead," Eamon told the frightened elf woman beside him.

"It's … it's my mistress. She went to visit, and … but it's horrible … they should never …."

 _Dear Maker, let her get to the point._

As if in answer to his prayer, the elf swallowed back tears, and told them why they'd been dragged out of bed. "Queen Anora is being held captive, and if we don't rescue her, I … I don't know what they might do!"

Carver paused, hating how mercenary he knew it would sound. "Do we … do we need Anora?" he asked Eamon. "She is Teyrn Loghain's daughter …."

"And she will speak at the Landsmeet," Eamon interrupted. "Do we want her to be in the hands of our enemies, fearing for her life if she says something they dislike?"

"All right." Carver ran a hand down his face, trying to wake himself fully. "Tell us where to go."

A half-hour later, the crying elven maid led them into Howe's castle. The stream of tears had finally stopped, but Carver feared it may start up again, as it did any time someone mentioned "Anora," "the Queen," or anything else to indicate her.

Suspicion flared in him; even with guard uniforms, they should not have gotten inside so easily. He and Leliana could pass for guards, but surely Morrigan did not look the part, no matter what she wore. And Sten was qunari, even in a guard's uniform. Still, no one stopped them as the maid led them through the kitchens, the common dining hall, and into the branching upstairs hallways to a door sealed by magic.

"Morrigan?" Carver asked.

She probed at the door, hands moving in the air just in front of it. "No, I do not think so. We shall have to find the one who cast it."

Anora's voice floated to them, muffled by the door and warped by magic. "He'll be with Howe, I would think."

"They've been spending an awful lot of time in the dungeons," the maid offered, telling them briefly how to find them.

 _Dungeons. Lovely._ "You stay here," he ordered the maid. "Or wherever they would think you should be. We will return shortly." His hands itched to have his sword in them as he made his way down the hallways, following the maid's directions. Either the other guards could notice they didn't belong at any moment, or they had been ordered to ignore them, and the maid had led them into a trap. Neither option held much appeal. In the arl's bedroom, Leliana found the secret passage that led, as promised, directly to the dungeons.

"Why do you think he keeps his room so close?" she asked, eyes worried.

"You know why," Carver said. Creeping along the narrow, danker halls of the dungeons, he made his way deeper in. The smell was the worst part. Blood and guts reigned supreme, but there was also the slight burnt smell of magic, and other, darker things he couldn't identify.

"You there," a voice called softly.

Carver whirled, sword at the ready. Beside him, Morrigan held her flames, and Leliana and Sten drew their weapons, as well.

A chuckle floated through the bars of a cell, and the speaker came closer, leaning his arms on the bar. "You don't look like you work for Howe. Dare I ask what brings you here?" A faint Orlesian accent tinged his words, and the ragged clothes left on him bore the markings of the Grey Wardens.

"Are you a warden?" Carver asked. "Why are you imprisoned here?"

"The answer to the first question explains the second," the man replied. "I am a warden, sent from Orlais to see if our brothers need help. Sadly, I have not reported back and the Ferelden wardens are all dead."

"Not all." Carver straightened. His nerve endings still sung the refrain of "trap." He wouldn't put it beyond these grasping nobles to hide their man in a prison cell, with a nice enough story for them to bite. But why bother? They were already deep into the castle dungeons, and could be taken for any number of reasons.

"So some survive?" The man grasped the bars tight, his face desperate. "You must let me out. Who survived? Is Duncan alive? Who is the senior warden at this moment?"

 _Here in Denerim? Me, on a technicality._ "There are no true senior wardens left," Carver said, unsure of how much he could tell him. But, if the man was a trap, then they were doomed already. "The most senior left is Alistair, who I understand was quite new. Then a Dalish called Niamh, just a short time ago. Then me. Who are you? Did you bring other Wardens?"

"Riordan." The man swore, spat on the ground. "Is it only three, then? Three wardens left of the Ferelden forces? The rest of my men have not yet crossed the border. We feared it would be taken as a sign of aggression, with Loghain acting as regent."

Sten growled deep in his throat. "We have no time for this."

"You're right, we must move." He looked at Leliana, jerked his head toward the cell door. "We'll let you out. You can come with us. We can use another warden."

Leliana knelt before the cell door, working her pick into the lock.

"You have my thanks, but I have important papers I cannot leave in Howe's hands. I shall make my own way from here." Riordan limped forward when the door sprang open, one hand curled around his stomach. "Don't worry, I am more resourceful than I look at present. I was only captured because I trusted the wrong man."

"Go to Arl Eamon's estate when you leave, then. Tell them Carver sent you. We should be back within a couple hours."

Riordan nodded. "I will need to stay, yes. If your wardens are truly as inexperienced as you say, you will need an older warden to guide you through." He left the way they'd come, and Carver wondered if there was any chance he would make it out.

"We still hunt the mage. We came here to rescue the queen, if you will recall," Morrigan said.

"Let's move, then. We have work to do."

They found several others in the dungeons that Carver couldn't leave, but he didn't think Eamon would fault him for the delay. Loghain and Howe had apparently made a habit of imprisoning and torturing high-born enemies; their voices would be strong condemnation at the Landsmeet. They found Howe engaged with torturing yet another victim, and killed him before he could turn around. The mage, not noticing them until that moment, leapt toward them, but Morrigan dropped him easily, and they felt a soft pop echo throughout the room.

"That will be the shield," Morrigan explained. "Your queen is now free."

The nagging sense of being led into a trap would not leave Carver as they made their way back to Anora's room, where maid and queen stood weeping hysterically, their arms wrapped around one another. Even were they not expected, this was entirely too easy.

"Cry later," Carver snapped. "We're still in enemy territory." The sense of impending doom urged him to hurry, escape before it was too late. Jogging down the hall, they spilled into the great hall that opened to the outside world, their escape.

Forty soldiers stood in it, armed and waiting.

 _Fuck me, we're going to die._

"How dare you come in here, and try to kidnap the queen?" one knight asked.

With a jolt, Carver recognized her; she was Loghain's second on the battlefield at Ostagar. "This is no kidnapping." Carver took his helmet off. "You recognize me. I fought at Ostagar. I fought after Loghain left. I'm here now to rescue the queen, at her request. You must know that Loghain no longer acts in Ferelden's interests."

Her eyes widened, and the point of her sword lowered, just a bit. "I …." Then her face hardened again. "Loghain is Ferelden's greatest general, and her only savior against the Blight now that the Grey Wardens have gone rogue. Where is Anora?"

"I'm here," the queen called. "Please, help me. I do not know these people."

Stunned, Carver turned to stare at her. How could she? _Traitorous wench!_

"You will surrender now. I assume you're the warden we've been told to watch for. You surrender, and your people can leave. If you do not, we will kill you all where you stand."

Carver's eyes roved over their numbers. He had himself, Morrigan, Leliana and Sten. Even assuming Sten could cut through ten of them without breaking a sweat …. "Morrigan." He kept his voice low, his lips moving little. "Is there any chance?"

She likewise murmured, unwilling to let them hear. "They have forty men, armed and armored. As well as a dozen mages. We will fight, but we are going to be slaughtered."

Carver's shoulders sank. "Queen Anora will go free and not be held against her will," he stipulated.

The commander had the grace to blush. "The queen has only been … a guest here. Of course she may leave when she so desires."

Resigned, Carver drew his sword, letting it clatter to the stone in front of them. "Let them pass, then." He was going to die, and die badly … but at least Morrigan would be safe.

His people did not move. Morrigan grabbed his hand. "We will fight, if you give the order."

He cupped her cheek, praying it would not be for the last time. "Go, Morrigan. Swear to me you'll keep—" _that bitch_ "—the queen safe."

"I … I swear it."

The mass of soldiers in front of the door parted, allowing Morrigan to lead Anora, her maid, Leliana, and Sten through. Outside, they should be safe; no one would dare attack them in the streets.

Besides, it looked as though their entire force were here in this room, their weapons trained on Carver alone.

"Take him," the commander ordered. "Make certain you don't kill him before Loghain can question him."

§

Carver lay naked and shivering, the cold, wet floor stealing away his warmth bit by bit. Every movement caused the bruises he wore to twinge, setting off a wave of rolling pain that never stilled. He did not know when Loghain was coming to question him. He'd been given every question they could think of without Loghain, beating Carver when his refusal to answer displeased them. He felt a dull sort of pride, knowing he had stuck to telling them that the wardens' plans were to defeat the archdemon, and nothing more.

He was certain they would kill him soon. At this point, he was too hurt and tired to care. His eyes started to slip closed, but then shot open as he jolted himself back to wakefulness. He wasn't allowed to sleep; he'd learned already that it was better for him if they did not catch him dozing. He licked his cracked lips, running a dry tongue over them and wondering how long it would take before he broke down and begged them for a drink. He feared that moment. When it came, he would tell them everything they asked and more. It would be his final, greatest failure.

 _Please let them accidentally kill me before then._

Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Carver's body clenched tight, terror stopping the shivers. They were back. They were back and he was so hurt and he was thirsty. Stifling a groan, he forced himself into a sitting position and shuffled back from the bars. It made no difference, he knew. One session, they started with a beating for crowding the bars when they came in; another, they beat him for being too far away to reach when they arrived.

Unbidden, tears sprang to his eyes, and he knew, the knowledge dropping hollowly in his chest, that they would break him today.

The door swung open, and he threw up an arm, squinting at the bright light, painful after the days in near-unbroken darkness. He bit his tongue against the flood of pleading that wanted to spill out of him.

"Carver!"

 _It's not possible._

Morrigan dropped to her knees in front of his cell, arms reaching through the bars. "You still live." She hiccoughed, seeming to fight back tears.

"Morrigan?" Could she truly be here? She seemed too soft to be his Morrigan.

"Get the damn cage open, or I shall take your ears," she shouted behind her.

 _It's really her._

"I'm coming, just a moment." Zevran appeared, pulling a lockpick from his hair. He hummed as he wiggled the crooked bit of metal into the lock. After a few grumbles, the door gave a loud click, and Zevran pulled it open. "There we are."

Morrigan rushed past him to get to Carver, patting tiny, cold hands along his face, his limbs.

"Thank you, Zevran," the elf muttered to himself. "Couldn't have done it without you, Zevran. You brighten our lives, Zevran."

She ignored him, eyes only for Carver. "We came as quickly as we could, I swear it. What did they do to you?" Bursts of tingling cold pierced his flesh wherever she lay her hands, healing magic that combatted the worst of his injuries. "Can you walk?"

Shamed, Carver turned his head, not looking at her. "I … I would need help."

"I thought you might. We brought Sten."

A confirming grunt from outside the cell. "You said there would be fighting."

"And there was, was there not? Now fight your highly developed warrior pride, and help Carver to his feet," she snapped.

"When did Zevran return?" Carver asked. Everything seemed mixed up to him. Hadn't they left him at Redcliffe?

"The others came just as I was leaving. I would have brought them all, but Leliana was distracted by an assassination attempt of some kind, and the others had more work in Denerim. I … I did the best I could," she added in a hurt, broken voice.

Weaving on his feet, clinging to Sten, Carver reached out to cup her cheek. "You saved me. My hero."

She chuckled at him, pushing his hand away, but gently. "I told you the ring was a good idea."

Still unable to walk fully, Carver let Sten bear him through the fort, marvelling at the piles of corpses they had left getting in. Still woozy, he found the world kept disappearing in huge chunks. He stepped partway out of the cell door, then they were on the next level up in the fort. He kicked in the face of a corpse he recognized as one of his torturers, then Sten was loading him into a wagon.

"I can ride," Carer protested, unable to stop the petulant whine.

"Yes, yes, I know. This is to make me feel better. Be nice and lie down for me?" Morrigan smiled, petting his arm.

"Oh, fine." He knew he was being coddled, but he couldn't protest. Not with Morrigan so insistent on being sweet with him.

He passed out on the journey, not waiting this time until he was safely back in Arl Eamon's estate.

§

Arm slung over Morrigan's shoulders to help him keep his feet, Carver stumbled with her into Arl Eamon's Denerim estate. Before they'd gotten further than the threshold, Alistair pounced.

"You would not believe the time we've had," he said.

Carver stared through eyes swollen nearly closed, draped over Morrigan and wobbling on his feet.

"All right, you've had a time as well," Alistair conceded. "But come on, we have problems here."

Morrigan protested, standing her ground. "Can you not see the condition he is in? He is not going anywhere until he is able."

Turning back, Alistair threw Carver's other arm over his own shoulder, ignoring the hiss of pain. "Shove some potions in him, then. We don't have time, and if you two don't do something, they're going to make me king."

 _There's no way I just heard that,_ Carver decided. More than once, Loghain's men had kicked him in the head. That had to be the explanation, because in no other way would King Alistair make sense to him.

They heard the arguing long before they reached Eamon's audience chambers. Servants rushed to and fro, half with ears clamped own against the raised voices, and half finding tasks that led them suspiciously close to the doors as they strained to overhear.

Alistair burst in with Carver, and for a moment, the conversation stopped. Then, it resumed at the same volume, without a question for Carver's state of health.

"Please stop," he moaned. The voices beat against his skull, threatening to split it.

Wynne _tssk_ ed, and sat next to him, working with Morrigan to heal him as best they could, while Leliana handed him potion after potion. She really must think that you could just fling potions at problems until they went away.

Once Carver could fully open one eye—the other remained stubbornly swollen shut—he took a count of the room. It looked like Arl Eamon, several guards, Anora, her maid and guards, everyone Carver had collected along the way, as well as Alistair, Niamh, and their strays, plus another dozen people he hadn't met. "Far too many voices in one room," he observed.

Indignance followed this statement, but Eamon held up his hands for quiet. "No, he's right. The wardens and their people can stay. Anora, you stay, of course. Everyone else needs to leave."

Carver lay his head on the table, enjoying the relative silence. "What are we fighting about, anyway?"

"I would not mind knowing that, myself," Morrigan said. Her hands never stilled, her magic probing and working with Wynne's to bring Carver back to fighting strength.

"There are several matters on the table, but—"

"Hang on, Grey Warden stuff first," Alistair said. "You got the mages, right?"

Carver tried to think; so much had happened, everything blurred together. "And some Templars. Ages ago."

"Great. We got the dwarves, had to pick a king for them, which was odd, then you were gone, so we went looking for elves."

"Did you bring them?"

Niamh let out a choked sob. "Werewolves," she said.

Trying to puzzle that one out, Carver looked at Alistair for an answer.

"It's a long story. We have werewolf allies, though. We also have the senior warden you were thoughtful enough to provide." He gestured to Riordan, who Carver noticed was here for the first time.

"So that all sounds settled. What's the issue, then?"

"These … people are trying to take my throne from me!" Anora cried.

Carver hoped the glare he shot her worked; his face still felt immobile. "Considering how you treat your allies, I can't imagine why," he snapped. Her little betrayal had put them into his condition.

"Ugh, no one listens to me. Had I admitted to escaping, they would have had me killed. Or sent me back to my father, who might also have me killed. I am vital for the future of Ferelden—"

"Be still, Anora. No one wants to depose you," Eamon soothed.

She crossed her arms. "Yet I keep hearing someone's bloodline mentioned."

Everyone stared at Alistair, who wriggled under the scrutiny.

"Bloodline?" Carver asked. There was something obvious here he was missing, he just knew it.

"Yes, well." Alistair blushed, one hand rubbing at his neck. "It, uh … may have slipped my mind, but I'm technically Maric's son, and as such the only living bloodline heir."

Carver nodded. Now, things were beginning to make sense. A mad, muddled-up kind of sense, but better than the roaring confusion of a moment before. "And some people would prefer a son of Maric on the throne?" he guessed.

"That is the issue we have," Eamon said. "No one wants to depose a sitting queen, but half the nobles will not overthrow Loghain and fight if we do not back Allistair. The other half will not step in if we do. We have few options for fixing Ferelden and defeating the darkspawn. We could have used you here," he added.

 _Are they blaming me for being captured?_ "Sorry, I was just enjoying my holiday too much to come back," he snapped. There were still too many people in the room. Some of Alistair's new recruits he hadn't even met yet. Eamon, expecting him to have come back with an answer. Perhaps he expected the men torturing him to have provided one for Carver to deliver?

And Anora. He found that he could not look at her just now. "Warden meeting," Carver growled.

Anora, Eamon, Alistair, and Morrigan all tried to speak at once, each giving different reasons why it was not possible.

"Warden. Meeting!" he roared, ignoring the sick, tearing feeling it caused in his head. They fell silent, and one by one filed out, all of Alistair's people, Eamon and Anora, leaving only Alistair, Niamh, Carver, Riordan, and Morrigan.

She stayed only long enough to kiss him on the cheek. "You are not healed yet. Do not overwork yourself," she said, then she, too was gone.


	14. Landsmeet

Chapter Fourteen

Landsmeet

Carver waited while the rest of them shuffled out, leaving only him, Niamh, Alistair, and Riordan, the Orlesian Warden.

"What exactly are we doing here?" Riordan asked. "Deciding the succession?"

"More or less," Carver agreed.

Alistair shuffled his feet. "Ah … I got the feeling that Wardens weren't really supposed to interfere in things like that. Stay neutral, make sure everyone is on our side when the Blight comes."

"He is right." Riordan folded his arms, a moue of distaste on his face. "It is not our place."

Carver slammed his hands down on the table. _Easy, Carver , temper._ He took a deep breath, but when he spoke he managed a speaking voice, rather than shouting at them. "Look, it doesn't sit well with me either, but we cannot fight the darkspawn if all the arls and armies are in an uproar about who may or may not be sitting the throne.

Sighing deeply, Riordan shook his head. "You are likely right. But given I am not familiar with the politics here anymore, I fear I cannot contribute to this discussion. I will leave you three to it." He gave a slight bow, then walked, pausing at the door. "Luck be with you."

Carver waited until he was gone before sniping. "Besides, you two picked the king of Orzammar on a whim."

"That was very different!" Alistair blustered.

Niamh squirmed in her chair, while Carver only waited. "Different, how?" he asked.

"Well, ah, for reasons. Reasons which … umm … would be fully explainable, if you had been there." He shifted uncomfortably. "Anyway, we didn't have a choice. They wouldn't send armies unless a king commanded it—"

"So it's exactly the same," Carver finished.

Niamh giggled, then shrugged. "I think he's right. Our goal is the archdemon; if we can't kill through the darkspawn to get to him, we can't do anything."

"Oh, all right." Alistair sank into a chair, defeated. "I guess I can't argue if everyone's against me." He sighed dramatically—and falsely, Carver thought—before launching into his argument.

"I think Anora—"

"Wait," Carver said, "let me stop you right there. I've actually dealt with Anora, and I have to say I don't trust her to manage an inn. When we were caught she claimed we kidnapped her." He gestured to his face, where purple bruises were just beginning to fade into ugly yellows and greens. "It didn't go well for me, and could have been avoided if she just announced, as the reigning queen, that she was leaving. She can't be trusted."

"But—"

"Alistair, I think he's right." Niamh took his hand, as if trying to convince him through touch. "She ran Ferelden while Cailan was busy with other things, and look at the alienage. There are people starving on the street, and they stayed locked in, unable to do anything. Anora ruling everything herself isn't any good for the country."

"You can't mean to put me on the throne," Alistair protested. "I don't have the slightest idea of what to do with it. I wasn't raised to this. In fact, if you'll recall, I was raised to the complete opposite—keep my head down, and don't threaten the line of succession. This is a bad idea." Finished saying his piece, Alistair leaned back in his chair.

 _Damn._ They could vote all they wanted, but they couldn't exactly force him bound and gagged to the coronation. "Don't you want to see Ferelden run with more care than she would?"

"Well … okay, maybe." Alistair shrugged. "I just know I'm not the one to do it, Carver. Please. I'd only make a mess of it."

Carver looked around the room, as if beseeching help from the very walls. His gaze landed on Niamh, who sat chewing her lip. Her brows furrowed; she was clearly deep in thought.

"Niamh?" he asked.

She appeared not to hear. Her teeth finally let off worrying her lip, and she seemed to be talking, though no sound came out. Wherever she was, she was very far away.

"Niamh," he yelled.

Startling, the elf focused her gaze back on them. "I'm sorry, did I miss something?"

Carver tried to remember his patience; one fist clenched, but so far, his voice remained steady still. "I can't condone Anora ruling Ferelden, and Alistair can't condone … well, Alistair. Honestly, both seem disastrous. Do we have another option?"

"Well …." Niamh sucked her lip back in between her teeth, chewing again.

Gently, Alistair reached out and drew it from between her teeth. "Don't the darkspawn bloody us up enough? You have an idea. Just tell us."

Leaning forward, Carver prayed she had something. She certainly seemed to.

Niamh stared at the table, wringing her hands on its polished surface. "Neither one of you is going to like it," she murmured.

"Just tell us, Niamh. Even if we hate it, mayhap it will make us think of different option."

"Well," she said again. "Alistair is true and kind, but he doesn't know how to run a country. As he said, disastrous."

"Thank you," Alistair said, appearing pleased someone agreed with him.

"But Anora's no better," Niamh continued. "She can do things, but she chooses to let people suffer. She's a disaster, in a different way."

"Told you," Carver said, smacking Alistair on the arm. Alistair swatted him back.

"But I'm wondering … Anora also has no bloodline claim, but she sits the throne … Alistair has a claim …."

Realization dawned on Carver. _That might work. The one balances out the other, and neither able to destroy everything by themselves._

"Wait, what are you two thinking?" Alistair's panicked gaze shot between them. "You're thinking something, and I'm not sure I like it."

"You'll marry her," Carver said, not bothering to soften the words. "She can teach you how everything is done, and you can stop her from allowing monstrous things happening to people she doesn't care about."

"Marry?" Alistair shot out of his chair and started pacing, running a hand through his hair. "No, I'm sure now. I don't like this. This has to be the most ridiculous—Carver, that's not what Niamh meant. Niamh, tell him. He's misunderstanding. You have a different idea, a better one that's not completely mad."

"It's the best way," Carver pressed.

"Niamh?" Alistair sat down beside her, taking her hand. "Niamh, was that really your idea? You … you want me to marry Anora?"

Carver looked away in discomfort. Perhaps he shouldn't be here for this; the hurt in the man's voice was difficult to bear.

"I … I don't want you to," Niamh explained to the table. "It's just … neither of you is suited alone, but you're the only two options. Together, you could actually help, and do things right."

A long moment of silence followed this. Alistair let go of her hand, edging away slightly. "Both of you agree to this?" The pain had disappeared from his voice, leaving cold neutrality.

Carver hesitated. "We really don't want to force you. But, it might be the best way to settle things. Supporters on both sides should be satisfied, the crown is stable, and we can get back to our duty."

Sighing, Alistair listened to him, nodding slowly. "And Niamh? This is truly what you think is best? You're certain, no changing your mind later?"

 _Don't, it's a trap,_ Carver thought, unsure of why. This really was the only workable option of the limited few they had … wasn't it?

Niamh nodded slowly, still not looking at either of them. "I think this is our best chance." Her lip once more found its way between her teeth. This time, Alistair didn't stop her from hurting herself.

"Well, then, I suppose that's settled, except …." Alistair sighed, the deep sigh of a man lifting a heavy burden. "Niamh, you know … you know I was a bastard."

"Yes, of course. Of Maric. That's why we're having this conversation." Niamh sounded confused, and Carver got the feeling he should leave, now. Whatever the rest of this was, he wanted no part of it.

"Niamh, I … I will not have a false marriage, with women on the side and the potential for royal bastards springing up everywhere." Alistair looked at Carver, but Carver shook his head, eyes wide.

 _No, I have no help for you._ He backed away toward the door, but he was unable to tear his gaze from what was happening. His hand groped behind him for the door handle.

"What … what are you saying, Alistair?" Niamh's voice trembled, but still Carver couldn't look away, and the door handle was hiding, somehow, his blindly questing hand unable to find it.

"What I'm saying, Niamh …." Alistair reached for her hand, but she yanked it away.

 _Maker's breath, she already knows. Just stop this, I don't want to hear any more._

"Niamh, if I am to be king and marry Anora, you and I … you and I have to be done."

Carver's hand found the door handle, and it was as if a spell had been lifted. "I should go," he shouted, whirling through the door and slamming it behind him. He ran, still half-hobbled by injury, halfway down the hall, stopping only when he had rounded a corner. That had to have been the most uncomfortable experience in his entire life, including getting torn into by an angry shriek. The look on Niamh's face ….

Carver shook his head. No, it didn't matter. What mattered was the archdemon. They had all already sacrificed so much for a chance at destroying it; what was one more little thing lost?

But for Alistair and Niamh to both have to make such a sacrifice …. _Maker, please._ Carver got moving again, setting a brisk pace both to get as far away from that scene as possible, and to reach his beloved so he could explain to her what had happened, and how it frightened him. _Maker, please don't make me sacrifice Morrigan the same way._

He trudged back to his room, trying to understand everything that had just happened. Anora to stay queen. Alistair, king at her side. And Niamh—

 _Poor Niamh,_ he thought. To be cast aside in such a cruel way. His stomach turned as he thought of Morrigan casting him aside like that. Thankfully, she had no country to run that he was unfit to help her with. Thank the Maker she wouldn't need to do such a thing.

Entering the room, Carver smiled at seeing her, lying in bed with a book propped up on her bent legs. Her tongue stuck out the corner of her mouth as she studied the volume; he wondered what had her so engaged.

Morrigan looked up, placing one finger in the book to keep her place when she closed it. "You have news, I take it?"

Nodding, Carver stripped out of his armor, piece by piece. Morrigan found a scrap of paper to put into her book, then got up to help him. She'd gotten quite good by now at disassembling his armor, or at helping him put it back on before battle. "Quite a bit of news. The succession is settled, at any rate."

"That is preferable to continuing civil war. Who is it to be?" She took the last piece of armor, settling it on the floor before seating herself on the edge of the bed.

"Well, Alistair is to be king—"

"Tis a terrible idea!" Morrigan's mouth fell open in shock, then moved as if trying to speak, but no words came at first. "That simpering jackanapes? He could never run a whole country like Ferelden. Perhaps Orlais, I hear they like jesters …." She trailed off thoughtfully.

Carver snorted at the thought of jester-king Alistair, gamboling and juggling for his Orlesian court. "Let me finish, please. He will rule beside Anora, who is to remain queen."

"That …." Morrigan paused, brow furrowed in thought. "That actually is not a terrible idea. I know you do not like her, she is cold and calculating and will betray when it suits her … but she does know the politics, she's been doing it for years. And with Alistair's habit for being a big hero and running around saving everyone … No, I take it back. Tis a good idea. They should balance each other out. Peace in Ferelden; who would have thought?"

Morrigan got up, rising on her tiptoes to kiss Carver on the corner of his mouth. "Well done."

"It wasn't exactly my idea. I came out against Anora. But Niamh—"

"Had to see her lover on the throne, did she?" Morrigan asked. The venom dripping from her words was clear, but he didn't understand why.

"No, it wasn't like that. The moment it was settled, in fact …."

"What?"

Carver's heart sank. She was doing the impassive face. Again. Why did she persist in hiding every difficult thought from him? "She wants what's best for Ferelden, that's all. But the moment it was decided, Alistair told her he won't keep someone on the side. He'll have a true marriage, or none at all. Niamh has been discarded, and she's devastated."

"Oh." Morrigan turned, walking in jerky steps to the window. "You'll be going to her, then?"

"What?" Carver tried to figure out how she had gotten there from here. Go to Niamh? "I'm not—Morrigan, what are you—"

"Well, you're not bringing the chippy here. I like this bed. So, you'll have to go crawling into hers."

Pieces came falling into place. Morrigan thought he had an interest in Niamh.

"Morrigan, I have no desire to—"

"I swear to you, she is not taking my place in this bed. I shall help you gather your things." She strode over to his pack, started shoving things in it. Her movements were still jerky, angry. She ignored him calling her name, trying to get her attention to stop this.

"Morrigan. Morrigan!" Giving up, Carver tore the pack from her, flinging it across the room, then he took her hands.

"I'm telling you, I am not—"

Still holding her hands in one of his, Carver grabbed her by the neck, pulling her close for a kiss. When he drew back, she sputtered at him.

"How dare—you cannot—I do not—"

"Morrigan, I need to stop for just a moment so that I may speak." His temper boiled under the surface, but if he exploded now, he would scald them both … and he might lose her forever.

"Go ahead. Speak whatever paltry defense you think you have."

"Morrigan, please listen to me. I have no interest in Niamh. There was a passing fancy when we met, but that was gone by the first night we made camp, after Lothering. Don't you remember? Morrigan, I have never wanted her. Have you been holding onto this the entire time?"

She shook her head, face half-crumpled. "I only wish to know where I stand. That is not so much to ask."

"Morrigan, I …." Carver paused. Words, again. Words always failed him at the critical moment. "Morrigan, you stand beside me, and I kneel at your feet. If you tell me we must march to Tevinter and declare ourselves the new empress and emperor-consort, we will go tomorrow and I will learn Tevene on the way. If you demand we move to Orzammar to raise those naked pig-rabbit things—" he shuddered at the image "—then I will immediately sell everything and journey with you to Orzammar. If you want us to swim to Orlais, I will gladly jump into the ocean with you, knowing that I will drown. Morrigan, you have my heart. Every bit of it. I swear it to you."

"I …." She swallowed, unable for a moment to speak. "I did not know you felt this way." She trembled, and Carver carefully wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

"I do. I am yours, Morrigan, no matter what."

She sniffled now against his chest. "I will not make you move to Orzammar. I do not like nugs, either."

Carver laughed, relief flooding through his body. Thank the Maker, he had spoken words right, this time.

Morrigan drew back to look at him. No tears had fallen, but her eyes looked overly shiny; it had been a close call. "I may, however, insist you learn your geography. You cannot swim to Orlais, my love."

 _My love._ Carver kissed her slowly, thoroughly; her arms came up around his neck, and they clung to each other. _My love,_ he thought, and again, _my love._ She had said it. She was as much his as he was hers.

"Do we have some time before the Landsmeet?" she asked, when they finally separated.

"You have as much time as you wish," Carver replied.

§

"We are late," Morrigan observed.

"They'll wait for us … I hope." Carver rushed through the halls, exultant in the fact that Morrigan allowed him to hold her hand, despite being outside their room. They reached the Landsmeet chambers, where the Arl, Alistair, Niamh, and the others waited.

"Thank the Maker!" Alistair said. "We thought we would have to start without you. You're half my support, you know. Where have you been?"

Leliana cleared her throat, and Zevran snickered behind his hand; they seemed to clue Alistair in.

"Never mind," he said, flushing. "Can we go in?"

Arl Eamon conducted most of their side of the Landsmeet. Carver stepped forward when directed, to give evidence about the poisoning of the Arl on Loghain's orders. Alistair gave testimony about the illegal slave trade happening right here in Denerim. In the end, they carried the vote easily.

Carver squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back. They had done it, then; brought down Teyrn Loghain, and all they needed to do now—

"I will not step down for these pups," Loghain announced, his voice carrying so that everyone in the chamber could hear. Murmurs followed his declaration like ripples in a pond. "I still have a right to a trial by combat, do I not? I demand that the so-called wardens send forth a champion for their accusations."

"That would be me," Carver said, stepping forward. They had not discussed this before, but he knew instinctively it must be him. Alistair was to be king, Niamh fought at range, and a delay while they discussed it made them all look weak.

Alistair seemed to have reached the same conclusion, for he nodded, swallowing the doubt which appeared to rise in him. "Carver Hawke stands for the Grey Wardens. Will this Landsmeet agree to the results of the trial?"

Murmured assent answered his question.

"Then the combatants will please step forward, and all others must clear the floor," Alistair said.

Carver realized that Alistair would actually not be half-bad at this; he had a good voice, commands that carried. He might actually be able to make all this work.

"I am so glad we took the time to don full armor before leaving our bedchamber," Morrigan murmured. She rose up to kiss him, whispering into his ear, "Do not die." Then she moved back with the others, leaving a large open space for Carver and Loghain to duel.

 _I can do this. I will not fail here, where it counts. I won with words earlier, and I will win with combat now._ He stepped forward, waiting for Loghain to be ready and do the same. Carver avoided looking at Morrigan, afraid to see anxiety on her face that might cause him to falter.

"Come then, boy," Loghain said. "Defeat me if you are worthy."

Carver ignored the bait, refusing to rush in unthinking. Loghain was a seasoned warrior, and knew how to deal with an enraged opponent. Carver moved slowly at first, feinting to test Loghain's weaknesses, falling back when Loghain pressed forward. After exchanging a few blows, Carver decided he had him. Loghain was older, weaker; it would not take too much to tire him out.

Driving forward, Carver swung his greatsword hard enough that Loghain would have to work to defend against it; fast enough that he would have no time to counter. Loghain fell back, step by step, able only to keep himself from being cut in half. Metal rang as Carver's sword came down again and again.

Soon, Loghain had been driven back to the stairs that led up to the dais, and fell; Carver pounced. In seconds, he had Loghain disarmed, helpless, with Carver's blade at his throat.

"I suggest, ser, the time for surrender has come."

"It has," Loghain agreed.

Celebration rose is the audience, wild cheers that Loghain had been at least forced to step down. Now they could rebuild. Now they could defend against the Blight.

Carver drew himself up, raising his voice to be heard over the mad din. "For your crimes, ser, you will be—"

"Wait!"

Carver stopped, confused. "Riordan?" he asked. What could he be thinking? Loghain had destroyed the wardens in Ferelden, why would he not want to see this ended?

"A word," Riordan said. "With you, and the wardens."

Looking around, saw his same confusion mirrored on every face. "Morrigan," he called. "Shale, Sten. Keep him guarded." He locked eyes with first Leliana, and then Zevran, assuring that they, too, knew their duty if Loghain tried to use this moment to escape. Then Carver gestured to Niamh, and walked with Riordan to where Alistair and Anora, the king and queen of Ferelden, waited.

Niamh joined a moment later. "What now?" she asked.

"I'd like to know the same thing," Alistair spat. Fury rolled off him in waves. "That man killed our king, my half-brother. He wiped out the wardens and thereby fed this Blight we're having so much trouble with. He needs to be executed, and it needs to happen now.

"No!" Anora cried. "He had made mistakes, yes, but everything he did was for Ferelden. I beg you, please spare him." Her eyes were on Carver, but he remained unmoved.

"I would have killed him already. I'm just wondering why I've been stopped." Carver glared at Riordan, waiting for an explanation.

"We are short on wardens already. Loghain, whatever else he is, is an accomplished warrior, and would serve us well."

"No!" Alistair shouted, at the same moment Anora yelled, "Yes!"

"Two no and two yes, then," Niamh said. "Since Riordan suggested it, and I think Loghain must pay for his crimes."

The four of them looked to Carver. _Why me? Why always me?_ He understood the dire need for more wardens. Miranda had insisted a warden was needed or the Bight would continue, and Morrigan had hinted at the same thing. They could all fall in the next battle; having more was always a good idea.

But Loghain. The man was a betrayer. The reason they had so few wardens was because of him. The reason they had no king and had to go through this whole charade was because of him. To make him a warden ….

"It's supposed to be an honor," Alistair argued. "Carver, you cannot do this."

Anora placed a hand on Carver's arm. "Please. Doesn't being a warden kill you anyway? He might die in the joining, or he will be taken by the calling. He will die, but you can make use of him before then."

Carver's mouth worked. Every answer made sense, and every answer was clearly wrong. "I … I'm not …."

The doors at the end of the hall burst open. "News!" A scout hobbled quickly down the length of the hall, favoring one leg that looked badly gashed. "Grave news I bring. Teyrn Lo—" He stopped, seeing Loghain on the floor, and under heavy guard. "You majes—" He switched tack, looking to the queen, surrounded by Grey Wardens and with a look of uncertainty on her face. The scout threw his hands up. "Look, who's in charge of Ferelden at this moment?"


	15. The Night Before

Chapter Fourteen

The Night Before

Anora stepped into the confusion, decisive commands settling as much as she could. "Teyrns, lords, ladies, the Landsmeet has been decided. You may all disperse and continue on preparations for fighting the Darkspawn. Teyrn Loghain's punishment for his crimes will be settled shortly. The Grey Wardens and the crown are working closely to be sure to keep all of Ferelden safe." She gestured to the wardens, scout, and soon-to-be husband. "We will discuss this more privately. Follow me. And bring my father." She paused, then added: "You may as well come too, Arl Eamon, and I'm sure you wardens will want enough guards to be sure my father does not escape. We will go to my audience chambers."

Anora strode forward, head high and in control of the situation. The scout followed close behind.

"I suppose we'd better go, or she'll hear the news without us," Alistair said. "Bring him," he called to Morrigan, waving the rest of their party forward. As they brought Loghain close, though, Alistair stopped the defeated Teyrn with a hand on his arm. "If you try to take advantage of this, I will see you hanged in disgrace."

Loghain sneered. "I don't fear you, pup. I do fear what you'll do to my Ferelden."

Guards stood close on either side of Loghain as the rest of the group settled into chairs. Exhaustion passing over him in waves, Carver was unsure of whether he could stand, were it asked.

Once the queen was settled, Alistair on one side and Arl Eamon on the other, she gestured to the messenger, hovering anxiously close to the door. "You may proceed."

"They're here, majesty. The whole darkspawn army. They'll be at our gates tomorrow, and have the city by afternoon if we don't stop them. One scout claimed to have seen the archdemon."

A furor followed this, Loghain shouting at Eamon, Eamon shouting back, Alistair and Riordan and Anora all yelling to be heard over the din. Carver slumped in his chair. Tomorrow. Already.

"Well, even if we are to die, we can at least rest after tomorrow," he muttered.

Morrigan placed a hand on his leg, and he wrapped his own hand around it, grateful for the comfort, as little as it was.

Alistair slammed his gauntleted fist into the table hard, continuing until the noise stopped. "Everyone calm down. It's what we've been working towards. Eamon, your men will be ready?"

"I've gathered as many armies as Ferelden can offer."

"Good. The Grey Wardens have gathered their own allies. We have a huge contingent of dwarves camped outside the walls, as well as mages, all of them that are left. And werewolves. I'll send a messenger to bring them in as soon as we pass the word so no one attacks them on sight. We are as prepared as we can be to face the darkspawn army."

"The archdemon is another matter," Riordan commented.

"Yes," Alistair agreed. "But not one I'm dealing with. You wardens decided to take Loghain, there's no place here for me." He stood, throwing his shoulders back. "The crown will go to make our preparations. We'll be ready. You just do your part." He grabbed Anora's hand, ignoring her look of surprise, and dragged her out, gesturing to Eamon to follow. The messenger stayed a moment, unsure of his place, then scurried away.

"Warden meeting, I suppose," Carver said. He nodded to his people. "You can go rest. Be ready in the morning." At his command, Leliana, Zevran, Wynne, Sten, and the other two—Morrigan had explained earlier, the dwarf was called Oghren, and the walking boulder, a golem called Shale—filed out. How in Andraste's name had they collected so many people, on what should have been a simple errand of delivering paperwork?

Morrigan had not moved.

Carver squeezed her hand, tried to explain gently. "Morrigan. Sweetling. This is to be a warden meeting."

She raised her chin at him, still holding his hand. "I am certain I can help with your plans. Let me stay."

Niamh and Riordan shifted in their seats; Loghain grunted in derision.

Aware of the audience, Carver squirmed. "Morrigan. I love you, but get out."

Huffing indignantly, she rose, her chair squealing when she shoved it back in. Leaning forward, she hissed at him: "I will speak to you directly after."

"The guards can leave too," Riordan decided. "Loghain, sit with us. You are to be one of us, after all." The moment the guard left, shutting the door behind them, Riordan rose, his face lined with worry.

§

"You have heard, I am sure, that a warden is required to kill an archdemon. Have you wondered why that is?" Riordan looked at each of them in turn.

"I assumed those were stories to keep recruitment up and coin flowing," Loghain spat.

Riordan shook his head. "If only. No one really understands quite how it works, but when an archdemon is slain, his … soul, his essence enters the nearest darkspawn and becomes another archdemon. Without a Grey Warden, it would be impossible to kill it, unless you could somehow slay every darkspawn in existence."

Carver felt each word building toward something he didn't want to see. It felt as though someone stood behind a curtain, slowly assembling a monstrosity, while you had to wait, and wait, until the curtain finally drew back. "And where do we wardens come in?"

Sighing, Riordan shook his head. "I hear your suspicion. And it is justified. The wardens take the taint into themselves. It is not only to be able to find the darkspawn, and sense them when they come. It is also so that the archdemon's soul may seek one of them out. If a Grey Warden strikes the final blow, if he or she is close enough, the archdemon's soul will flow into the warden."

"But … the warden does not become an archdemon," Carver said. He was starting to see what kind of monster Riordan was assembling.

"Of course not," Loghain snapped. "'In death, sacrifice.' You know the oath."

"I missed that part, actually," Carver griped back. _And you have taken no oath, as yet._ His hand twitched, wishing he could just kill him. The necessity of sparing him galled him, but according to Riordan, it was more necessary than Carver had even realized.

"Loghain is correct. Whichever warden kills the thing will die along with it. We already are sworn to serve. We all know we will die young, at the hands of darkspawn. The sacrifice is not the difficult part." He paused, making sure they were all listening. "The difficult part is, we have but four wardens in Ferelden. If we all fall before it does …."

"We will lose Ferelden entirely," Niamh whispered.

"That is correct. Now that we have settled that … Loghain, will you still become a warden?"

"Certain death now, or risk death tomorrow. It matters not. I have always served Ferelden."

"Not at Ostagar," Carver muttered.

"Quiet, pup. Do not speak of things you do not understand."

Carver rose, his chair squeaking as he shoved it back. "Do you need me for this?"

Riordan glanced between them. "If Niamh will assist me, we can manage."

"Of course," Niamh said.

Carver only waited long enough for her to agree, then strode away. He could not tolerate another moment of Loghain's smug face, his insistence that he was still in the right. He almost missed Niamh's next words, already stepping into the hall.

"I imagine you'll wish to say goodbye to Morrigan."

They struck him like an arrow; he sagged against the wall, unable to breathe. Morrigan. He might die tomorrow. He had to say goodbye to Morrigan.

 _Not fair!_ No representative of the Maker appeared to make it fair. No one came with an excuse to get him out of it. After all this, only four wardens could strike the archdemon down, and they would have to fight through an army of darkspawn to do it. What were the chances he would live beyond the morrow?

 _How can I say goodbye?_ He shuffled like an old man, delaying the moment, but too soon, he stood in front of their door. Morrigan would be waiting for him. Angry at having been dismissed, surely, but waiting for him, nonetheless. He would have to look at his beautiful woman and tell her there was little chance she would see him again. His chest tightened, but this was not a pain he could take a potion for. He had to face it.

Pushing the door open, he slunk into the room, stopping when he saw her.

He had expected her to be waiting, but he had not expected this. Instead of pacing in agitation, or perhaps perched on the bed playing flame over her hands, Morrigan stood, no expression on her face, and she wore her dressing-gown. Her manner was businesslike, as though she were a dwarven merchant about to negotiate some payments with him … but the gown slipped off one shoulder, a deliberate enticement, he was sure.

Unable to reconcile these, Carver decided to get to it. "Morrigan, I … there's something I have to tell you."

"I should start, I believe. I think I know what news you bring. I would rather explain to you why the sacrifice is unnecessary."

Carver shook his head; somehow, it didn't surprise him that she seemed to know exactly what the rest of them had just discussed. "Morrigan, there's no way out of it. A warden must kill the archdemon, and die doing so. There are only four of us. I almost certainly will not make it through the battle."

Rolling her eyes, Morrigan stood, placing her hands on his chest. "I know all this, foolish. I am telling you, there is another way. A way to sidestep the sacrifice, while the archdemon still dies. Is that not what you want? You could live through this. The others as well, if you are concerned. No one more need die, once you reach the archdemon."

"How?" It didn't make any sense. Riordan had seemed certain, and it was unlikely the wardens did know their business after several Blights. "The Orlesian warden said—"

"I know, love, I know. But I have a different way. There is a ritual I can perform. You can lie with me, on the very eve of battle, and we shall make a child. At this early stage, the child will not be harmed by the essence of the archdemon, and absorb it, instead. Because of the ritual, the soul will seek out the child, preferring it over wardens or other darkspawn. I will have to be close, but not right on top of it. You can strike it down, become the greatest hero the world has ever known, and then live through it. It is all this I offer you. I hope you will accept it."

Carver blinked, trying to understand everything she said, but only one word stuck out: child. They would make a child. He, and Morrigan, together, would have a _child._ He didn't remember sitting down, but he found himself on the floor nonetheless, his ass aching.

"Are you all right? Carver?" Morrigan crouched in front of him, snapping her fingers by his eyes.

He took her hands, holding them pressed against his chest. "You wish to have a child with me?" he asked.

Morrigan's eyes went wide in shock. "That was not exactly what I said. I—"

"Yes. Morrigan, yes." He kissed her hands with reverence, unable to credit his luck. "We can start a family. After this Blight is over, we can go settle somewhere peaceful, and raise our children. We will raise them together, and live our happy life."

Her eyes fluttered as he spoke, uncertainty flitting across her features. When he finished, she smiled, though her eyes retained some of her old, impassive look. "There is nothing I want more," she told him.

Carver felt a moment of unease, but reassured himself that she was only having trouble with such a momentous decision being made so quickly. He clung to her, knowing that he would be able to make it through the battle, if this was what he had to come back to.

After a time, she drew back, drawing him toward the big bed.

"Do we, uh … have to do anything unusual this time? For the ritual?" Carver asked, suddenly self-conscious.

Morrigan shook her head. "You just leave that part to me," she said, working his armor apart piece by piece. "I shall do my part, and you can just do what you do." She undressed him down to nothing, then stripped her own dressing-gown off, finally blowing out the candle as they performed not only her ritual, but the magic they'd worked out together over the past weeks. Carver never thought that it might be for the last time.

§

Carver woke before dawn, the darkspawn scar on his arm aching. Now that he was awake, he could feel them out there. Waiting. Watching. Outside, smoke rose in the dark sky from the fires in their camps. The battle was today.

He shook Morrigan's shoulder, kissing her on the forehead when she opened her eyes. "Ready?" he asked her.

"Of course."

"The baby?" Anxiety tore at him, and he wondered why he'd agreed to it. What if the archdemon soul did something to his child?

"Not truly even a baby yet," she answered him. "Everything will be fine." She hugged him close, not drawing back for a long time.

Someone thumped on their door, then Alistair's voice called out. "Carver, let's go. Battle plans."

"A moment," Carver called back. Alistair had claimed to be leaving the wardens yesterday, but he wouldn't abandon the responsibility, it seemed.

Dressing hurriedly, Carver let Morrigan help him into his armor. Her brow furrowed, she kept opening her mouth to speak, then closing it again without saying anything. Before they left the room, he took her hand.

"Morrigan, what is it?"

"We … will not be able to speak much on the battlefield. In … in case …." She threw her arms around him, clinging to him for one weak moment before it all began.

"Everything will be all right, Morrigan." He kissed her once more on the forehead, brushing the hair back out of her eyes. "I have to go meet with them. I'll see you on the battlefield."

"Farewell," she murmured as he left. It was not until much later that he wondered at her phrasing, and what she had meant by it.


	16. Battle for Denerim

Chapter Sixteen

Battle for Denerim

The forces they'd amassed gathered around the city gates, overflowing both into Denerim and out to the countryside. The numbers were too much for him to even comprehend. He thought this time, they might actually outnumber the darkspawn.

And only one of them truly needed to be killed to end the whole thing.

Alistair and Anora stood on a platform, high enough above the crowd to be seen, though only the closest to them could hear the before-the-battle speech. Carver spoke briefly with Leliana, then Zevran, thanking them for coming. He told Wynne to be careful, and try not to get herself into any more trouble. With Sten, he merely grunted, nodding. It was enough.

The darkspawn crept closer as the sun climbed the sky, and finally their army was gathered before Denerim's. He saw no archdemon, not yet. But then, Morrigan's ritual promised an end even if it was not a warden to strike the final blow; it took some of the terrible pressure off him. He breathed slowly and evenly, waiting for the signal. Like at Ostagar, except this time Loghain would not be able to abandon them. Riordan had not let him out of his sight, and no one was following his orders anymore.

They waited only for the darkspawn to charge, ready to a man. Werewolves prowled through the crowd, unable to stand still.

Why did the darkspawn not charge?

A commotion from the gates caught his attention, and he strained to hear the shout from the runner.

"They're here, they're inside the city, oh Maker, save us, Denerim is falling from the inside!"

 _Fuck._ His blood ran cold, but there was no time to deal with that. He ran, shouting as he went, as Eamon directed half the armies to stay outside. The others flooded back into Denerim, to face the darkspawn menace.

The darkspawn surged through the city streets, but no one faltered in the face of them. They pressed forward just as hard; ugly, dissonant clashing of metal on metal wherever they met. Shrieking overhead, the archdemon flew by, bigger than the previous two dragons he'd fought.

 _Of course._

It landed on the roof of the palace, and Carver called around him. He needed a force to press their way into it; defense of the city must fall to others. Niamh and Riordan fell into his group, and Carver led the motley bunch—dwarves, werewolves, mages, and soldiers—through the city.

Everything burned, and the screams carried over even the other sounds of battle. Smoke burned his eyes and throat, yet he kept shouting, kept driving his men forward. At every turn, they lost a few more, but the darkspawn fell before them. Lungs burned with exertion, but he would not be stayed.

A whole group of shrieks waited at the palace doors, but the werewolves charged, more than a match for them.

"The tower!" Carver called, leading them into the palace towards the end. More darkspawn crowded the halls, enough to convince Carver that this was intended as a last stand. Either they killed the archdemon here, or it killed them.

"Remember the wings?" Morrigan asked him. They'd defeated the last one by burning holes in its wings, rendering it unable to fling itself back into the sky. If they didn't want an escaped archdemon, they would do well to cripple this dragon, as well.

"You should be somewhere safer," Carver shouted at her. He swung over her head, decapitating a hurlock that had been about to cut her in two. "The child—"

"Must be close enough when the demon falls," Morrigan finished, turning from him to unleash lightning down the hallway, sending a dozen darkspawn jittering and rooted in place until Carver's men cut them down.

He would have argued further, but there was no point; she would not go, and he needed to save his breath.

Though the darkspawn were here in strength, the assembled armies that defied them were even greater, and there was no chance that evil would carry the day. Carver's men flooded up the stairs, cutting down darkspawn as they went, finding themselves, after interminable fighting, on the roof.

It faced them, then, hissing and pouring smoke into the sky. It played a gout of flame over the armies; those without shields or who didn't raise them in time were roasted, screaming. Morrigan kept a small group around her and Carver protected, a massive magical shield to push the flame back.

"Morrigan, now," Carver said.

The armies rushed in, swarming the archdemon. Mages surrounded it, sending magical attacks from every direction. The remaining werewolves rushed in, but even with their speed, it caught several of them in claws, roaring as it crushed them or ripped them apart.

Morrigan called a lightning storm, greater magic than he had seen from her before, and bolt after bolt of lightning struck down at the dragon, piercing its wings until they were left in ragged, smoking tatters.

Carver himself was at the thing's shoulder, raining blows down upon that it didn't seem to notice. Though its hide lay slashed and torn, it wheeled, picking out a mage or a werewolf at a time, ignoring the others until it could get to them. It betrayed no sense that this was the end for the Blight; it acted as though it could take its time defending itself.

Then it wheeled to Riordan, seizing the man in its jaws. Riordan slashed at its face, fighting until the dragon crunched its jaws closed, letting the Grey Warden fall in two pieces to the ground.

 _One fewer now._ But the archdemon was slowing; though they had lost half their forces here, Carver's men were wearing it down. He only tried to remember what he'd learned from fighting the other two. He couldn't get under the thing, as it crouched low to the ground. They had already crippled its wings; as long as they kept hacking at it, it would eventually die. The battle seemed interminable, and the demon's focus now was for the wardens alone.

Its tail lashed out, sending a dozen men flying; Carver thought he saw Loghain among them. A moment later, its jaws snapped toward Niamh, and a werewolf pushed her out of the way, taking her place at the last moment. The wolf screamed in agony as teeth ripped through it. Carver drove forward. It was almost dead. So close.

The archdemon was weakening, its movements slow and sluggish. It reached for Carver and he was able to slice at the grasping claw, driving it away. It gave a great roar, falling over onto its side as three more wolves hit it, slashing through the thick hide. Instantly, men rushed in, opening the great belly to let its guts out. The creature's innards smelled foul, but it was the smell of victory. Now it was dying.

The rest of the soldiers fell back, those remaining clearing out the rest of the darkspawn that swarmed the roof. The archdemon gave a cry of agony. Carver stepped forward, bringing his sword down.

A moment later he found himself flying; a great force pushed him back, knocking him from his feet when he struck the final blow, taking its head.

Carver lay on the ground, unable to remember how to breathe properly, then panic set him moving. _Morrigan!_ Scrambling to his feet, he wove through the fallen soldiers to where he'd seen her last. No one remained on their feet after its death, but while the humans, dwarves, and one lone werewolf were moving, groaning, the darkspawn lay still.

He found her under a pile of darkspawn corpses, her face pale. "Morrigan. Morrigan!" He patted her face, panicked. She couldn't be gone. Unless she was wrong about the ritual. But he still lived, didn't he?

He only realized he was still trying to wake her, eyes unseeing, when she grasped his hand, pulling it away from her face. "I think that is sufficient," she said.

He gathered her up, holding her in his arms, while behind him a cheer went up. Had all the darkspawn died when the archdemon did? It sounded as though they must have.

"Let me down, I can walk," Morrigan insisted, and he did, though he would come to regret it soon. Someone spotted him, dragging him off and shouting about the wardens having done it. Then the crowd surged forward, separating him from Morrigan. When he managed to look back at where he left her, he saw only a sea of faces, everyone remaining pushing him along to the celebrations which had already begun in the streets.

Carver could not manage two steps without another person clapping him on the back, another stranger pulling him into a hug tight enough to squeeze the life out of him, someone else pressing gifts and tokens into his hands. The streets pressed tight with those they had saved, a crowd buoying him along until he got to the palace and left most of them behind. Thankfully, they could not all follow, though inside brought a new crop of congratulations and gifts.

"Leliana," he called, finally seeing one of his own.

"You did it!" she yelled, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"We did. Every step of the way."

On the dais, Alistair and Anora held up their hands for silence. A tiny hand tugged at Carver's, pulling him to the side. Niamh stared up at him, chewing on her lip.

"Is something wrong? We won, surely you—"

"I'm going," Niamh said abruptly.

Carver stood stunned. "Going? But the celebrations have just started."

"Yes, and every one of them led by King Alistair and his queen." She glanced up to the dais where King Alistair was giving his victory speech. Her eyes brimmed over with pain, and when she spoke, there was a catch in her voice. "I'm going," she said again, "and I don't think I will be back. But Zevran has agreed to go with me. We might see Antiva, make sure the Crows have given up on him." She shrugged. "You will make my excuses when it's the right time?"

"I … all right. If that's what you need to do." Carver didn't understand; she didn't even sound like herself. How badly had Alistair damaged her in tossing her aside?

"What was that?" Leliana murmured when he slipped back to her side.

"Never mind for now." Carver nodded toward Alistair. "I think this may be important."

"We owe today's victory to the efforts of the Grey Wardens, so let's make sure you all show your appreciation." He raised a glass, and nobles roared, another half-dozen pounding Carver on the back.

"Now," Alistair continued, "I was the senior warden for much of the journey, but since I'm already to be made king, there isn't a whole lot else anyone can reward me with."

Everyone assembled laughed, and Carver admitted that he might actually be a good choice to stand by Anora.

"But there are other wardens who have not yet been so richly rewarded. Our newest warden recruit, Loghain, was recently accused of crimes that, thankfully, his service now renders moot."

Looking around, Carver saw smiles on everyone's faces; apparently, they could hear the jovial tone, but not see the anger flashing in Alistair's eyes.

"But we will need a highly respected warden to start reopening relations with the wardens in other countries. Ser Loghain, I am delighted to announce that you will be assigned to Orlais, to facilitate bringing the wardens back to full force in Ferelden and beyond."

Carver hid the laugh with a coughing fit, but Leliana didn't bother; her pealing laughter dipped and rose above the sound of applause.

 _He better hope Loghain stays in Orlais, or Alistair might find himself the recipient of a dagger in the neck while he sleeps._

"The next appointment …." Alistair looked around the room, confused, his eyes finally lighting on Carver. Eyebrows raised questioningly, and Carver's heart sank. He was looking for Niamh. Carver shook his head slowly.

"The next appointment," Alistair continued, shaking off the hit, "goes to our warden Carver Hawke. One of the last few wardens remaining in Ferelden, he was there at the beginning, when we first started gathering forces again after Ostagar. And the wardens need a new Commander. So good luck, Carver, we've seen you in command."

More laughter, more back-clapping. They needed to stop before they bruised his ribs. Alistair's speech felt like it was winding down, so Carver decided it was time to sneak out, grab a little private time with the mother of his child. He straightened up to look over the crowd. Her staff usually made her an easy person to spot.

There was Wynne, and the golem, Shale, stood on the opposite side. Where was Morrigan? She had slipped out ahead of the crowds when Carver found himself stuck in them; she had to have made it here by now.

Fighting mounting irritation, Carver scanned the crowd, until his eyes found Alistair, staring at him with a mournful look in his eyes. The new king shook his head sadly.

Carver took his meaning instantly, but rage surged. No, she wasn't. She wasn't gone. Carver pushed through the crowd, cursing Alistair in his head. He was wrong. He was mistaken. He was a moron. Whatever reason he thought Morrigan was gone, he was an idiot, and if she decided to give these celebrations a miss as well, she'd be in their room, waiting. She wouldn't just disappear.

She wouldn't leave him.

But when he opened their door, the ground sank beneath him. Her pack was gone, as were the book she'd been reading and the little belongings she kept on her bedside table. The mirror that he'd given her was all she had left behind. That, and ….

In the middle of the bed lay a sheet of parchment, folded in half, his name on the front.

 _Don't read it,_ he told himself, but his hand reached out to grab it, brought it to his face; his eyes started reading, even though the words blurred in front of him.

 _My dearest Carver,_ it began, immediately settling into his gut like a knife, burying itself deeper with each word he read.

 _My dearest Carver,_

 _You will never know how it pained me to write this. Please know that it is not what I wish, but what must be._

Carver's hands clenched, and he forced them to loosen, flattening the parchment so he could read the words written in her fine hand.

 _I know not how this letter finds you, but I hope it hurts. Understand I must hate you a bit; you let me believe for a time that things could be different. You let me fool myself into thinking I could live a different life. For that, I cannot forgive you._

Twist, twist; the knife burrowed deeper into his gut.

 _Yet I find it is important that you know my feelings were genuine. I have lied to you, I admit, but not about that. Never that._

 _You must not follow me. You shall not see me again. I shall raise our child, and keep him from harm, I swear it to you._

 _Despite the reasons I must hate you, I fear I shall also never be rid of this affection you kindled in me, and I hope you suffer much the same._

A thin tendril of smoke rose from one edge of the letter. Alarmed, Carver shook it, only to realize the parchment was burning itself up.

 _Know that I shall think of you._

 _Farewell, my love._

"No no no," he murmured. The paper blackened, curling up at the edges as the combustion worsened. The letters themselves seemed to be burning, taking the most vital parts of her message first. Panicking, he waved the paper around, desperate to stop its insistent destruction, but she'd spelled it, he realized. Just before he had nothing left, he saw her script continued on the back; one final line, one final twist of the knife.

 _I think he shall have your eyes._

Then the flames took it all. He cried out, dropping it when the flames licked his hand. For a moment, he could still make out "my love," then it was gone, leaving only a smear of ash on the floor and an empty ache in his heart where she was supposed to be.

Stunned, Carver could not move for a long time. When he finally could, he found he did not care to move farther than the bed, crawling into it and wrapping himself in the comforter.

It still smelled of her; jasmine and wildflowers. His chest hitched once, twice. _I have to find her._ But how could he? She had said he would not see her again. She would not have left him even a shred of evidence about where she was going.

 _I am never going to see her again._ The knowledge racked him, pain making him shake until he fell into a merciful sleep.

When he woke, his body screamed at him; he hadn't taken anything off before getting into bed. He sat up, feeling like an old man with nothing left to look forward to.

 _Well, I guess I can go report in and be Warden-Commander._ He wondered vaguely how many years he would have to keep plodding through life before the darkspawn taint took him, now that his Morrigan was gone.

* * *

 _AN: So, thanks for reading. The story continues in_ Commander, _which should be up next month sometime, hopefully. First, though, I have to fix … all of this (pacing and structure is NOT a fast fix, lol). You might see a bunch of new chapters go up here, but they won't be "new," mostly, just aggressive rewrites of what should have been here the first time around. You can just skip 'em if you don't want to re-read. But once you see a flood of notifications on that, check for_ Commander, _I'll be posting it then. I want to thank you all again for your feedback, which is being used to improve the piece and future writing. I hope you continue reading when the next installment goes up._


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